That Radium Glow
by Tenebrielle
Summary: Noir AU. FBI Special Agent Clint Barton's life is upended when Steve "Captain America" Rogers is assigned as his new partner. Their assignment? Find some missing scientist for the government. But when this Dr. Banner turns up in the middle of a murder he can't remember having committed, Barton realizes the case might be far more complex than he thought...
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: Written for the Big Bang at the Beta Branch, and the lovely cover art by RedBessRackham! This story is rated T for violence (World War II combat and noir-typical violence including the description of a murder scene) and a little bit of language. If you're concerned about more specific triggers, send me a PM and I'll see what I can do. :) Happy reading!_

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><p><strong>That Radium Glow<strong>

Chapter 1

Saipan was all ragged jungle and rocks that jutted abruptly out of the sea to rip our clothes and cut our skin while we scrambled out of the water. We never landed on the beach. That was suicide. And just like every other island hellhole we'd landed on during the war, I hated it. After two weeks of mud, heat, and relentless combat, I still hated it.

"'S a hell of a place, Frankie," my brother grumbled from beside me. My given name is Clinton Francis, Clint to friends and fellow Marines. Barney called me by my middle name, just like I called him by his. It's kind of a thing with us.

Oily black smoke from burning jungle wafted over us, and I wished I could pull the collar of my shirt up over my mouth. Gunfire and mortars sounded all around us from Japanese positions on the next hill. My wet collar chafed against my neck. Oh, to be dry again. I shifted as much as my rifle stand would let me and adjusted my sights.

"You got that right," I grunted. "We shoulda never left Iowa, Barn."

I heard the _whoosh_ of a flamethrower nearby followed by screams in a language I recognized as Japanese. Still didn't understand the words, not even after two years at the front. The smoke took on the horrible smell of burnt flesh. My stomach churned.

"Close," Barney said, lowering his binoculars to scan the nearby jungle. He shrugged, seemingly unruffled, and looked through his binoculars again. He was my spotter, and a damn good one, because he said: "Got him. Two rocks up from that bush with the big red flower."

I sighted the bush and roved upward. A single ragged hibiscus flower clung tenaciously to its bush and for some reason it made me smile. I'd sent Bobbi a postcard with a red hibiscus before shipping out from Hawaii. It felt like a lifetime ago. I counted two rocks up the ridge, and sure enough, I spotted a distinctive light colored helmet. Our luck was in: an enemy officer.

"Nail him, little brother," Barney said.

I had a shot. "That's a rog," I replied.

Maybe there was once a time when I would have hesitated to put my finger on the trigger with a man in my sights, but if there was, it was difficult to remember. That had been someone else, long ago. I took two quick breaths followed by a long deep one. My hand steadied. Time slowed. My crosshairs settled on the head under the white helmet. I exhaled slowly.

My finger began to tighten on the trigger as the scream of a mortar sounded directly overhead, but I did not move. We'd been getting shelled for days. But Barney swore. My eye was jerked away from the scope as his body slammed into mine, forcing me down into the mud. My rifle bucked in my hands but the crack of the shot was lost in the demonic howl of the falling mortar. It was right on top of us. I yelled, struggling even as Barney's arms tightened protectively around me-

I jolted awake before the explosion. Something roared passed my window, drowning out my cry. I sat up, struggling in the tangled sheets, and ran my hands through my hair. They came away damp with cold sweat. I felt the trickle of sweat along one of my scars and a chill raced down my spine. The nightmare had lost none of its power in the five years since I'd been evacuated from Saipan, more dead than alive.

They shipped my brother Barney home too, after that. In a wooden box.

The roar outside my window faded to a distant rattle as the elevated train passed. I fumbled a cigarette from the package on my bedside table and lit it with shaking hands. I nearly dropped the lighter twice. It was only a train, I told myself firmly over my screaming nerves. Only a train. I was living in Lake View that year, not far from the El because the rent was cheap.

After a few heavy drags, I felt my heart beat begin to slow and I became more aware of my surroundings. The morning light streamed thickly through my bedroom window. I looked at the clock and swore. Coulson had warned me not to be late today, and late I was. I untangled the bedclothes and got to my feet, stretching with a cigarette still clamped between my lips while I hurried barefoot into the kitchen. With the memory of the flamethrowers fresh in my mind, the sight of bacon in the icebox was enough to turn my stomach. I put the coffee on while I shaved, and drank it black while I walked out the door.

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><p>The Federal Building, where our offices were, was at Dearborn and Jackson. The massive gold dome loomed over the Loop like that meddling great aunt you can't seem to get rid of at family reunions. My luck was in today, despite the morning's miserable start, and I managed not to get stuck in traffic. A keen wind howled off the lake, cutting straight through my coat and nearly blowing my hat off my head while I walked in after parking the Ford. I showed the day guard the badge proclaiming me to be Special Agent Clint Barton.<p>

I took the stairs two at a time and nearly bowled over a couple of smart-suited lawyers in my rush to make it to the Bureau before Coulson realized I was late. But Maria Hill was waiting for me with her usual disapproving glare as I burst through the double doors marked _Federal Bureau of Investigation, Chicago Field Office_, panting and clutching my gray hat with one hand.

"Late again, Barton," Maria said, glancing up at me coolly from her typewriter. She was tall for a woman, dark-haired and slender, with fine features. She'd probably have a great smile if she ever lightened up. I'd sure never seen it. She wore a no-nonsense black suit and her hair was pulled up into a no-nonsense knot to match. The edge of the handkerchief in her breast pocket looked sharp enough to cut myself on.

I went for my own handkerchief to mop my face, but I'd forgotten it in my rush. I shrugged and approached her desk. She eyed me. I leaned on the edge rakishly and fumbled in my breast pocket for a cigarette. I felt a new pair of eyes on my back, and glanced over my shoulder. A tall blond man I'd never met was sitting outside Coulson's office, watching me with vague disapproval. I ignored him.

"Maybe they'll bust me down to secretary and bump you up to agent," I retorted with a grin. Maria gave me a look that suddenly reminded me she could hit the bullseye on the shooting range four times to my five. I flicked a match with my thumbnail but botched it: the phosphorous caught and burned my thumb instead of lighting my cigarette. I swore and dropped it in the ashtray. The blond man's face darkened.

"Barton," Special Agent In Charge Phil Coulson called from his office door, before Maria could say anything. He was old enough to be balding, roughly my height, and still well-muscled despite his age. "Get in here."

I tipped my hat playfully to Maria Hill and strolled into Coulson's office. I say office, but it was really more of a glass box. Blinds hung down from all sides, in case he wanted privacy. Today they were open, so whatever he had to say to me must not be all that important.

"Sit," he ordered, and I dropped into a chair. I thought briefly about putting my feet up on his desk, just to see what kind of reaction the blond guy outside would have. Phil and I were old friends, all the way back to boot camp, so he probably wouldn't punch me. Unlike Maria Hill. "You know how I feel about waiting."

"Sorry, boss," I said, immediately on guard. I knew my excuse was thinner than field hospital gruel, and Coulson probably knew it too. "You know what traffic's like."

It was a blatant lie and we both knew it. Without thought, I thumbed the ten-inch scar that ran from my hip to my ribs under my clothes. One of my souvenirs from Saipan. Coulson shot me a look that made me feel like I was being x-rayed, but he didn't call me out. Instead he tapped a sheaf of papers into a neat stack and reached for a manila file. He held the manila folder up, but changed his mind and set it flat on the desk in front of him. He folded his hands on top of it.

I raised an eyebrow at this fidgeting. Coulson didn't have a single nerve in his body; not in battle and certainly not behind a desk. "Just spill it, Coulson," I drawled. "I don't got all day."

Coulson shot me an appraising look. He licked his lips and didn't mince words. "I'm assigning you a partner, Barton."

"_What?_" I exclaimed, surprised and more than a little annoyed. It felt like being assigned a babysitter, and Lord knew I'd never gotten along with most of the other agents in the Bureau. It had been one thing when I'd been partnered with Coulson, but then he went and got himself promoted, and- "Boss, you know I work alone! I've always worked-"

"I know," Coulson said, raising his hands in a placating manner. "I tried to explain this to Director Fury, but he was adamant. He wants both his best and my best on this case, and that's you, Barton."

I scowled despite his attempted flattery. "Phil…"

"It's happening, Barton, whether you like it or not," Coulson suddenly snapped. "So I suggest you get accustomed to the idea, and clean the bottles out of your car." My eyes narrowed angrily, and his face softened a little. "Look, I'm sorry, Clint. This case is very important, and I'm under a lot of pressure from above, here."

I bit the inside of my lip. Lord also knew I knew the futility of arguing with orders that came down from On High. "Fine. Who's the lucky chump?"

Coulson jerked his chin towards something outside the office and I turned. As if on cue, the blond man looked up. He looked somehow familiar, but I couldn't quite place how. "That's him. Agent Steven Rogers, DC branch."

Steven Rogers. I frowned a little, trying to place the name. Steven Rogers. I felt my jaw drop. Sure, I recognized the name all right, along with every other American. It was straight out of the newsreels.

"_Captain America?_" I exclaimed incredulously, half-leaping out of my chair. "You stuck me with _Captain America_?"

Coulson made a face, but I swore I could see a glint of amusement in his eye. "I'd suggest you not call him that."

"How _old_ is he?" I demanded, standing and pushing the blinds open with my thumb and forefinger to get a better look at Rogers sitting outside. "Looks more like a boy scout than a Fed."

Coulson cringed a little, and I rounded on him. "Graduated from the academy top of his class," he said.

"Yeah, but what year?" I growled. I dropped back into my chair, glowering. Bad enough to get assigned a new partner, and a rookie partner to boot.

Phil avoided the question, and my heart sank. Stuck with a rookie. "His records are quite impressive, and Director Fury assures me he's the best."

I made a derogatory noise. Good on paper was one thing; good in the field was something else.

"There's his war record to consider, too," Coulson added sharply, and my eyes dropped to the floor. I couldn't deny he had a point there. Like every American, I knew Rogers had done his part and done it well, just like me and Phil. But still, I wasn't real happy about going from being assigned a babysitter to _being_ the babysitter.

"Fine. But you owe me, Coulson."

Phil grinned and got up from his desk. He never had been quite comfortable with ordering Maria around via an intercom. He stuck his head outside and called: "Agent Rogers, will you please join us?"

Special Agent Steven Rogers, formerly known as Captain America, was an even more impressive physical specimen in person than he'd been in the newsreels. His blond hair was cut short and combed to the side with the military neatness a lot of us hadn't quite been able to shake since returning home. Under the blond hair were a pair of bright blue eyes and one damn patriotic jawline.

"Steve Rogers," he said, extending a hand. I got up to shake it, and found he had a good three or four inches on me. From the way he filled out his crisp blue suit, he probably had a good twenty or thirty pounds of muscle on me as well.

There was a vaguely disappointed gleam in his eye, and I suddenly felt small and a little inadequate in my rumpled gray flannel and crooked tie. But I swallowed my doubts. Rogers was clearly as thrilled as I was about getting a new partner. That at least hinted at good sense; I sure as hell wouldn't want to be partnered with me, either. I grinned at him. "Clint Barton. Good to meet you…Captain."

The skin tightened around Coulson's eyes and I stifled a chuckle. Rogers took the ribbing with good grace, however, and we all took our seats. I could practically see myself in the shine of his shoes.

"So you wanna cut to the chase, boss?" I asked Coulson, digging around in my pockets for a cigarette and another match. This time I didn't screw up and the match flared to life without burning me when I flicked it. I lit the cigarette and inhaled the smoke gratefully. I offered one to Coulson, who looked like he wanted to hit me. I glanced to the left and saw Rogers' lips had drawn into a thin line of disapproval.

Fantastic. Bet he was a teetotaler, too. I ignored him.

Coulson produced the manila folder he'd dug out when I first came in. He removed a photograph and held it up so Rogers and I could both see it. "This is Doctor Bruce Banner. He's been missing for two days. You're going to find him."

Rogers took the file without protest, but it was my turn to look like I wanted to hit something. First a partner, then getting pulled off my other work (hey, Commie-catching is important, at least according to our bosses on the Hill) to work a missing persons' case? I opened my mouth to protest, but Coulson shot me that murderous look that threatened to bust me back to Vice, so I shut up.

"A doctor?" Rogers asked, thumbing through the file with a frown.

I took the photograph from Coulson and studied it. Judging by his face, Banner was a little heavier than I was. He had dark curly hair that needed to be cut and soft dark eyes that looked a little sad. He looked like a professor, or a poet, or something equally non-threatening. Not the Fed's usual person of interest, that was for sure.

"Scientist," Coulson corrected. "He's a physicist; based at the University's new research facility outside of town. It's all pretty hush-hush."

"Oh," Rogers said softly, as if that explained something. I raised an eyebrow at him. Coulson smiled a little.

"What's the government want with some scientist?" I asked sourly, stubbing the end of my cigarette in Coulson's ashtray. This was well below my paygrade.

"The A-bomb," Rogers said, shooting a questioning glance at Coulson. He nodded encouragingly, and Rogers continued. "It's all classified work, but judging from his background, I'd say he was one of the scientists that built the bomb."

_That_ got my attention. The newsreels called the atomic bomb the devastating new weapon of a post-war age. It was now the most important American secret in existence. Everyone, especially the Reds, were rabid to get it. It was one of the reasons I was supposed to keep tabs on all the Communists in town.

I swallowed. We Feds had seen photographs of the devastation of Japan after the war, after the bombs had been dropped. Most people only saw the mushroom clouds, but not us. The-Powers-That-Be called it motivation for us to do our jobs, and to do them well. They were right; even after the absolute hell I'd witnessed on Saipan, the images still made me sick. I glanced down at the photograph in my hand, and Dr. Bruce Banner's soft eyes looked back at me. It was hard to believe this man could have helped end so many lives.

Maybe this case wasn't below my paygrade after all.

"Where was he last seen?" I asked, tossing the photograph back onto Coulson's desk. Rogers took it and tucked it back in the folder. Couldn't even handle that little bit of disorder, could he? He was going to _love_ my car.

"Tony Stark's penthouse," Coulson deadpanned. "Apparently Dr. Banner was in attendance at a party there two nights ago. He was supposed to run some kind of experiment in the morning and never showed."

Interesting. I didn't know Stark personally, of course, but he'd sure kept the Tribune's gossip page well-supplied in the two years since he'd returned to Chicago. I'd always admired his flare.

"Tony Stark?" Rogers asked incredulously. "This Banner sounds like a pretty quiet guy. I have a hard time seeing him with someone of Stark's…reputation."

I grinned at the obvious disapproval in his voice. Tony Stark was only the richest, most famous alcoholic this side of the Mississippi. So Rogers _was_ a teetotaler.

"Stark's supposed to be brilliant in his own right, when he ain't saturated," I observed with a shrug. I roughed up my grammar on purpose, because Rogers looked like the type of guy it would irritate. "He's a weapons manufacturer. Banner built bombs. Maybe they know each other socially."

I got to my feet, and Rogers hastily followed suit. I adjusted my pistol in its shoulder holster, and felt to make sure I had my badge. "Well, there's only one way to find out. Why don't we go ask him about it, Captain?"

I could practically hear Rogers' teeth grinding as we left Coulson's office. My grin widened. Seemed like our partnership was off to a great start.


	2. Chapter 2

**That Radium Glow**

Chapter 2

"Sorry about the mess," I lied as I swept a couple newspapers and a bottle or two off the passenger seat. The bottles were a leftover from my marriage to Bobbi. She told me to quit drinking, so I did it in the car where she couldn't see. I'd thought I was being clever. She didn't. Even after the divorce papers were signed and I'd dried out a bit, I hadn't been able to shake the habit.

Captain America watched me with a nearly straight face. I wasn't feeling particularly forthcoming, though, and he kept his mouth shut. That got him another reluctant point in his favor. Rogers needed to work on his poker face, but at least he wasn't nosy.

He climbed in the car carefully as soon as I did, holding the manila folder from Coulson in one hand and adjusting his gun in his shoulder holster with the other. The Ford's engine roared to life, but it wasn't enough to cover the clink of empty bottles in the back seat. A chill raced down my spine. The sound always reminded me of my old man and that was no way to start a day.

Okay, so maybe Coulson had a point about cleaning my car.

I signaled and pulled into traffic. Rogers managed to keep his mouth shut for another five minutes, but I had the sneaking suspicion his curiosity was going to win out at some point soon. I watched him out of the corner of my eye as we drove towards the lake. He flipped through the manila folder again, closed it, tapped it up and down a few times on his leg. He turned to me and started to ask a question.

There was only one thing, other than the case, that we had in common and I was about as keen to discuss that with Steve Rogers as I was the reasons behind the bottles in my car.

"2nd Marines," I said shortly, before he could ask. I kept my eyes riveted to the road. "Until Saipan in '44." Rogers swallowed. He turned to me again, ready to speak, but I cut him off. "I know where you served, Captain."

His eyes fell to his lap, and I suddenly felt like a real heel. Unlike me, he was trying to make the best of the situation. It wasn't Rogers' fault I was in such a lousy mood; _that_ I fully attributed to bad dreams and Phil Coulson.

I sighed and took one hand off the wheel to run it through my hair. "Stark's got a penthouse in his building on the Mag Mile," I explained, and Rogers glanced up. Vaguely, I remembered that he was new to Chicago. I gestured at it with my chin; the ostentatious skyscraper on the river emblazoned with _Stark Industries_. "The glass and steel number."

Rogers leaned forward to peer through the windshield. He raised an eyebrow. "Wow."

There was a hint of distaste in his voice that made the corner of my mouth quirk upward. Stark's modern tower did look a little out of place, with the stately Tribune Tower and the bright white Wrigley building. But that was Tony Stark, for you.

We did the usual thing, showing our badges, waiting for a secretary, showing our badges again, and so on, until we were allowed to be whisked upward in an elevator to the top of the building. Another secretary greeted us as the steel doors opened. We both quickly removed our hats. She looked cut from the same no-nonsense cloth as Maria Hill, with the suit and pinned-up red hair to prove it.

"Agents Barton and Rogers?" she asked. I caught a whiff of a Chanel number when she stepped forward to shake Rogers' hand. "I'm Virginia Potts, Mr. Stark's confidential secretary. I spoke with Maria Hill on the telephone. Will we be requiring the services of Mr. Stark's lawyer for this interview?"

"I don't think so," I said.

"We're just trying to get some information, ma'am," Rogers said politely. "Mr. Stark isn't being accused of anything."

There was an unsaid _yet_ hanging on the end of that sentence that made Miss Potts raise an eyebrow. "I see," she said aloud. She gestured towards another set of doors, this time ornate wood. They looked like the oldest things I'd seen in the tower so far. "This way, please. Jarvis will show you where to go from there."

Our footsteps made no sound on the thick carpet as we walked inside Stark's penthouse. A suit of armor stood in the foyer and I felt my jaw drop. Sure, I'd seen suits of armor in photographs and the movies, but never one like this. It was rough and dirty, scarred by what looked like bullet holes. An iron mask with empty slits for eyes stared judgmentally at me and Rogers, as if to size us up.

"Is that the armor?" Rogers asked, and this time there was awe in his voice.

"I think so," I replied, walking over to get a closer look at the jagged welds and bullet scars that marred the hand-forged metal. There was still German writing stenciled on some of the pieces in fading paint.

I glanced over my shoulder at Rogers. Tony Stark wasn't just a famous weapons designer and a playboy. He'd done his bit in the war, flying experimental aircraft over Germany even before Pearl Harbor dragged the rest of us in. The problem with experiments is that sometimes they didn't work so well, and Stark had gone down in enemy territory. A couple years in a Nazi prison camp was no picnic, especially for someone as famous as Tony Stark. His name kept him alive, but rumor had it that they'd done _things_ to him in the camp before he'd managed to construct a suit of armor and literally cut his way to freedom.

It was one hell of a story. There was even a movie starring Errol Flynn to prove it.

A door opened behind me, and we both jumped. A short, round little man with a valiant comb-over and a bowtie had appeared. Right. Jarvis, the butler. "Mr. Stark will see you now," he announced in an indulgent English accent. He directed us through yet another set of doors, into Tony Stark's inner sanctum.

Tony Stark was sitting in a fat leather armchair that looked out of place amid the sharp lines and block colors of the modern décor in his study. A highball glass, half-empty and with beads of condensation running down the sides, sat on a table beside him. He picked up the glass and waved absently towards us. I could practically feel the distaste radiating off Rogers.

Stark looked older than his years, despite the lack of silver in his dark hair and impeccably trimmed goatee. Stark hadn't bothered to dress to meet us, as he was wearing a gaudy silk robe that opened to mid chest over what looked like silk pajamas. A faint blue glow came from the center of his chest under his shirt, and the tips of a pair of thick white scars were visible just below his collarbone. Maybe some of those Nazi experimentation rumors weren't so far off.

"Mr. Stark," Rogers said, flashing his badge. I quickly followed suit. "I'm Special Agent Steve Rogers, and this is Special Agent Clint Barton. We'd like to ask you a few questions about-"

"Whoa, hang on there, Captain," Stark cut in, and I resisted the urge to grin as Rogers' patriotic jaw clenched. Recognized again. "First things first. Pleasure before business. Take a seat."

He gestured to a couple pieces of minimalist furniture that on second glance appeared to be chairs. I took a seat and this time Rogers uncertainly followed my lead.

"Drinks?" Stark asked. It was barely noon, but that didn't seem to bother him in the least. "Jarvis makes the best cocktails in the city."

"Sure," I said, at the same moment as Rogers said: "No, thank you."

He shot me a _look_ and I rolled my eyes. I'd better not let him see the flask I carried in my breast pocket. "On second thought," I said, caving to my new partner's clear irritation (and his ability to rat to Coulson that I was drinking on the job), "I'll pass."

Stark cocked his head slightly to one side and gestured expansively with his glass. "I know you guys can't afford this on your salary. Unless the Captain here has some extra currency from Uncle Sam stashed away the good government isn't telling the tax payers." His bright brown eyes roved over Rogers' suit and he added: "On second hand, maybe not."

Rogers' face darkened at the insults, and I stifled another grin. I decided I liked Tony Stark. "Another time, maybe," I cut in, before anyone could get too sore.

Stark shrugged. "Your loss." He picked up his glass and drained it in one swallow. He twitched his eyebrows at Jarvis, and the butler disappeared with a silver tray. "Now what was it that you wanted to ask me about?"

"Do you know this man?" Rogers asked, producing the photograph of Dr. Banner and handing it to Stark.

Stark looked at the photograph without touching it and raised an eyebrow. "Bruce Banner?" he asked with some surprise. "Sure. We worked together during the war; went our separate ways after."

I leaned back in the not-quite chair and studied him for a moment. "What can you tell us about Dr. Banner?"

Stark picked up his empty glass and swirled it idly, making the melting ice tinkle. His eyes narrowed and for the second time that morning, I felt like I was being x-rayed. They said Stark was sharp, but even half-sauced the guy was clearly leaps and bounds ahead of me and Rogers. "He's no Communist, if that's what you're afraid of."

Rogers' eyes narrowed a little and I realized he'd heard the defensive note in Stark's voice, too. I also knew for a fact that Banner wasn't a member of the Communist party, so that jived. The defensiveness was over something else, then.

I decided to take a gamble and go with straight-up honesty. "It's nothing like that," I told Stark, watching his face carefully. "He's gone missing."

"Christ," Stark sighed. He leaned over to retrieve a cigarette from a silver case on the table beside him. He offered me one and I took it gratefully. He had a fine silver lighter to match the silver case. Stark took a few drags before continuing. "How long?"

"Couple of days," I said, resisting the urge to blow smoke at my new partner.

"He was last seen here," Rogers added. "Apparently you hosted a party, what, three nights ago?"

"I did," Stark said, and the hint of an edge came into his voice. He sure didn't like Rogers much. "Nothing illegal about that, Captain. Banner was here at my invitation."

"Mr. Stark, given the nature of his war work," Rogers retorted, and the way he lingered on _war work _made Stark look up sharply, "it's possible he could be in danger."

"All we know is Banner was supposed to run some experiment the morning after your party and never showed," I added quickly, trying to smooth things over. "Anything that you can tell us about that night, Mr. Stark, or about him, where he might go, who he might see, could help."

Stark leaned back in his chair and for the first time since our arrival, I got the impression he was being serious. His face was unreadable, but there was something in his eyes that caught my attention. Something pained, that reminded me of sleepless nights and too much whiskey.

"You know what we were working on, then?" he asked. Rogers and I nodded and he continued with carefully measured words. "Banner's a great scientist. I mean, genius, real genius. Best in the world at what he does, and I don't say that lightly. And he's a good guy. It's a rare combination, in our line."

"Was he acting strangely at the party?" Rogers asked.

"Not for Banner, no. I was surprised he came at all." Stark stubbed out his cigarette in a glass ashtray. He saw my questioning look, and he smoothly added: "Not really his crowd."

My gut told me that wasn't what he had meant, but I let it ride. For now, anyway. "Any idea where he might have gone after he left the party?"

Stark let out a bark of humorless laughter. "I don't remember what I had for breakfast, Agent Barton," he quipped. He thought for a moment and said: "Jarvis might know. He might have called a cab for him."

He stood and stretched, before crossing the room to lift a shiny black telephone from its cradle. He murmured into it for a few moments before setting it down. "I've asked Miss Potts to ask him, and to get you a guest list for the party."

It was a polite dismissal, especially for Tony Stark, but a dismissal nonetheless. "Thanks for your help," I said, standing to leave. Rogers and I shook his hand.

There was a knock at the door, and Miss Potts entered. Rogers stepped forward to the entryway to speak with her. I moved to follow, but Stark grabbed my arm. A grim line had appeared on his forehead as soon as Rogers' back was turned. I eyed him.

"Look, Bruce always does things by the book, since the- well, since New Mexico," Stark told me in a low voice. "He would have never left town without telling anyone, let alone the night before a criticality experiment."

"I see," I said, in my neutral lawman voice.

Stark handed me an engraved card with a set of numbers scrawled on the back. "My private line. I didn't want to ask in front of Captain Patriot there because it's probably not regulation, but Banner's a friend. Let me know if he's in trouble. Any time, day or night."

I hesitated for a moment before accepting his card. He was right, it wasn't _exactly_ regulation, but I felt for the guy. "Just don't tell my boss, okay?"

The corner of Stark's mouth quirked upward, and I had to suppress a grin.

"Agent Barton?" Rogers called from the doorway. He had a piece of paper in his hand, to add to our file. I quickly shook Stark's hand and joined him. We tipped our hats to Miss Potts, and followed Jarvis through the maze of doors to the elevator.

"The guest list," Rogers told me, holding it up and tucking it in the folder. "I don't know any of these people. And the destination of the cab Banner took. The Black Widow Bar mean anything to you?"

I grinned. "It's nightclub in the South Loop," I said aloud.

Rogers frowned a little, and I agreed. The Black Widow wasn't just another nightclub, It was _the_ place to go in the South Loop for a good time. The proprietor, Natasha Romanoff, and I had worked together regularly. She helped me suss out the Communist True Believers from the amateurs looking to get a rise out of their parents or looking for excitement, and I helped keep things smooth with the Feds. Sometimes we were a little more friendly than professional, but Rogers didn't need to know that. I frowned a little. It seemed an odd destination for Dr. Bruce Banner, but as it was all we had to go on, I'd take it.

"So what do you think of Stark?" I asked Rogers as we retrieved my car from the garage.

Rogers shrugged. "Seems concerned about Banner. I think he might know more than he's letting on, though."

"Definitely," I agreed.

* * *

><p>Noon was too early to visit a bar, even Natasha's, so we headed back to the office for a few hours to check up on Maria Hill's progress in contacting Banner's fiancée, Elizabeth Ross. Apparently she was in New Mexico visiting her famous father, and the Air Corps was making things difficult out of what seemed like sheer spite. I had faith in Maria's tenacity, though, and Rogers and I even shared a laugh at the flyboys' expense.<p>

It was still light outside when Rogers and I finally pulled up outside the Black Widow Bar. I was hoping to catch Natasha in the brief period of peace between readying the bar to open and the actual opening. She was proud of her joint and she worked harder than anyone in keeping it running, though she'd never cop to it.

Rogers peered through the window at the building's front, frowning a little. He didn't look the type to approve of nightclubs either, but I didn't know a soldier either living or dead who had never set foot in one. Not when they were full of girls and a good time, and you didn't know when or if you'd ever see either again.

In his defense, the Black Widow Bar wasn't much to look at on the outside. The South Loop wasn't exactly prime real estate, and the building had that shabby look during the day, before darkness and neon lights worked their magic, like a softly blurred lens on an aging Hollywood starlet. A tall sign with a stylized spider spelled out "BLACK WIDOW BAR" in what would be red neon once night fell, but for now was simply dull gray script.

"Okay, listen up," I said, and Rogers turned to look at me. It was important he didn't ruffle any feathers inside with this earnest, Captain America badge-flashing act. "The owner and I go back. Her name's Natasha Romanoff, and she's done some real favors for me in the past. I'd appreciate it if you didn't torpedo that by flapping your badge all over creation in here."

"_Romanoff?_" Rogers demanded incredulously. His eyes narrowed. "She's a _Red?_"

I snorted. "Relax, Captain, she's Russian, but she ain't no Red," I retorted. "Not anymore, at least." The bureau had exhibited the same attitude when I'd first put in a request to vet Natasha, and with good reason, but Coulson had come round in the end. I sure wasn't going to push aside the best asset I had because it made Captain America a little uncomfortable. I tried to remember that he was fresh out of the Academy and God only knew what they were telling recruits now that the Soviets had the bomb, too. "You know someone better for rooting out Reds than a former one?"

Rogers didn't look happy, but I could see thought in his serious blue eyes. Still, he hesitated outside the door when we got out of the car, and I could tell he badly wanted to adjust his pistol in its shoulder holster.

"Natasha Romanoff has a lot more cause to hate Joe Stalin than most, Rogers, and a hell of a lot more than you," I snapped at him, and he swallowed. "Now, when we're inside, we drop the agent act. We're just a couple of guys come to see the Widow about something, not Feds. Get it?"

"Yeah," he said sourly.

"Let me do the talking," I added. "And keep in mind, she's currently our only lead on Banner."

"Fine," Rogers grumbled, conceding the point.

We pushed through the glass double doors and stepped inside. The Black Widow Bar had the vaguely dull, dilapidated air of any nightclub during the day, all the enticingly dark corners and velvety glamor chased away by sunlight to reveal plain walls and faint evidence of spilled drinks on the carpet. A sliver of parquet marked a dance floor before the cubby of a stage on one wall, while the wooden bar gleamed spotlessly from across the room. It was the only truly spotless thing in the joint. The spider motif on the sign outside was repeated everywhere, from the stylized art deco webs on the tables to fat black spiders with red hourglasses on their bellies in stained glass bordering the mirror behind the bar.

"We're here to see Ms. Romanoff," I said to the bouncer, a real bruiser of a man not less than six-six and at least three hundred pounds. He recognized me and waved me through to her office. Rogers followed, though I could tell he was looking around with clear interest.

Natasha's office was as plain as her bar was opulent, tucked away behind a hidden door beside the stage. A few photographs lined the walls in simple wooden frames, mostly of men and women in Red Army greatcoats, standing among shattered buildings or sitting on tanks adorned with red stars. But the real piece of interest rested on nails in the wall behind her dark wooden desk: a long barreled rifle with a fat scope. The butt was adorned with rows and rows of neat scratches, grouped into fives. A frame containing several Soviet medals for valor and another frame, containing a photograph of a smiling man and a woman I recognized as Natasha in uniform, flanked the rifle.

Rogers stared at this display with his mouth open slightly, and I grinned.

"It's a Mosin 1891/30," a female voice said behind us, and we both turned. "In case you were wondering."

Natasha Romanoff stood in the doorway, her bright red lips quirked into a knowing smirk. She was dressed for work in a curve-hugging, off-the-shoulder black number with a daringly high slit. Her curly red hair was perfectly coiffed and she studied me and Rogers with green eyes that would have made Vivien Leigh jealous. All in all, the effect was more Hollywood than bar owner or Hero of the Soviet Union.

Rogers picked his jaw up off the floor and scrambled to doff his hat. I suppressed a chuckle and removed my own hat. Natasha walked around behind her desk, smirking, and clearly enjoying the effect she had on Rogers. She gestured to a pair of uncomfortable wooden chairs, and we sat down. It was hard to take my eyes off her, and I'd known her for years.

"Agent Barton," she greeted me coolly. Her voice was pleasantly husky, with just the barest trace of a Slavic accent. "And you must be Agent Rogers."

She won some points there, for not calling him Captain. "Ma'am," he said aloud.

Natasha reached into a battered holder decorated with a red star, and retrieved a cigarette. She held it directly between her lips and lit it. "My husband, Alexei," she said conversationally, gesturing to the photograph beside her rifle. "He was killed in Stalingrad. I wasn't."

"I'm sorry to hear that, ma'am," Rogers said politely. He'd added up the medals and the rifle, and there was a new light of respect warring with the suspicion in his eyes.

Natasha exhaled a puff of smoke and glanced at me. She favored Russian cigarettes; strong enough to make me cough my lungs out, and she made them look as smooth as a Havana cigar. "I have twenty minutes to opening, Barton. What can I do for the FBI?"

I produced the photograph of Dr. Banner and handed it to her. "Have you ever seen this man before? Name of Bruce Banner. He might have been in here, three nights ago."

She studied it carefully before handing it back to me. "He looks familiar," she said, her eyes narrowing a little in thought. "I think he came in with a tall fellow, tall and dark-haired. Had an English accent and an English suit. I'd recognize him if I saw him again, but I didn't get his name."

"Any idea where Banner might have gone after he left?" Rogers asked eagerly.

I glared at him, but Natasha simply took another drag on her cigarette. "I don't; I didn't see him leave," she said with a shrug. "A lot of people come through here, Agent Rogers. Besides, there was a fight that night. The bouncers had to throw a man out. I was busy smoothing some ruffled feathers. You know how prickly Judge Hart can be, Barton."

Natasha glanced up at the clock on the wall, and I nudged Rogers. We stood to leave. I extended a hand formally to Natasha. "Thanks for your time, Ms. Romanoff," I said aloud, and she smirked at my exaggerated courtesy. "Let us know, if you hear anything?"

"Of course. You boys have a good night."

We wove our way back through the bar, which was getting darker by the minute as the sun set. Rogers and I hesitated outside for a moment, looking at each other. No soap on our best lead so far. Just like that, we were back to square one with Bruce Banner.

* * *

><p><em>Thanks for reading! Please review! :)<em>


	3. Chapter 3

**That Radium Glow**

Chapter 3

Back at the office, Rogers, Maria Hill, and I winnowed down Stark's guest list some by excluding the women and the more obvious choices, such as people named Rockefeller or Field. Unfortunately there were still a good twenty-five or thirty names remaining. Without more information on our suspect, the dark-haired man who had been seen at the Black Widow with Banner, it would take a lot of time and patience to track down and sift through the remaining men. Certainly too long for one man and one night.

That didn't stop me sitting in my car after supper with a pint of bourbon and staring at the list until my eyes crossed, waiting for a name to jump out and punch me on the nose. None of them did.

I even saw it when I closed my eyes to go to sleep. I didn't mind. It was a nice, peaceful change from jagged rocks and blood-red flowers and mortar shells.

Which, of course, meant the telephone had to ring.

I swore and rolled over and threw an arm over my ear to block the noise until it stopped. It didn't stop. I swore again and sat up, running my hands through my hair while the telephone rang and rang. I reached over and dragged the receiver to my ear.

"Barton," I growled, blinking blearily until I could make out the radium dial of my battered old alarm clock. 3:15 in the morning, if it could be called morning. I muttered a few words under my breath that would have made Gunny blush and fumbled in the dark for a cigarette and lighter with one hand.

"_Barton? It's Rogers." _

My new partner's voice sounded tinny and artificial over the line. "The Army teach you to read a clock, Cap?" I mumbled around my cigarette. I cradled the receiver between my shoulder and my ear to free my hands to light it.

"_The FBI, actually,"_ he retorted, and I managed a sleepy half grin between puffs of tobacco. _"They found Banner."_

The grin slid off my lips and into the darkness. "What?"

"_They found Banner half an hour ago,"_ Rogers explained. There was something in his voice that tipped me; something ominous. "_Beat cop on his rounds."_

"Alive, I hope?" I asked, groggily dreading the reply. I flipped on my bedside lamp and scrubbed a hand across my face. Stubble scraped my palm.

"_Yeah,"_ Rogers said. He hesitated for a moment. _"But it's…it's not good, Barton. You better get down here right away."_

"It's too late…early…for twenty questions, Rogers," I said sourly. "Spit it out."

"_He wasn't alone," _Rogers told me. His voice was curiously flat now._ "There's a woman, dead. It looks like murder."_

My blood ran cold, and I came fully awake. "Jesus," I mumbled. I took a long final drag on my cigarette and stubbed it out. I started to pull on my rumpled clothes, juggling the telephone between shoulders while I dressed. "Where are you?"

"_Polk and Dearborn, I think."_

I felt my nose wrinkle. It was a seedy part of town, even seedier than the area around the Black Widow, especially this time of night. "I'm leaving now," I told him. "Call Coulson; he'll want to know right away."

We hung up. I quickly bolted a cold cup of yesterday morning's coffee and shrugged on my shoulder holster and overcoat. If Banner had actually murdered someone, it was going to be a jurisdictional nightmare between us and the Chicago cops. I just hoped Coulson still had enough pull with the chief to keep us on the case.

* * *

><p>The crime scene was easy to find, surrounded by black-and-whites and lit up with red and white police spotlights. They glittered like gems in the fine mist of rain that had begun about twenty minutes previous. Even before I hit the scene there were people sliding away in upturned collars and pulled-down hats, women in too much rouge and too short skirts scurrying with the mincing steps of overly high heels. The curtains in the windows did not move, though. Another murder. Another swarm of boys in blue. Nothing to write home about in these parts.<p>

Even before I reached the police cordon at the mouth of the alley I could smell the coppery scent of blood in the air. I knew it all too well. A chill raced down my spine and I pulled my overcoat's collar a little closer around my neck.

"Hey, there, pal, you can't come in here," a man in police blue growled at me. Beads of water dripped off his peaked hat. "Crime scene."

It was too early, or too late, to deal with a beat cop with delusions of grandeur. I flipped my badge open and held it up close to his eyes. "FBI, sweetheart. Game, set, match."

"Another goddamn Fed," the cop grumbled, but he let me by. "Chief ain't gonna like this." I grinned at him, just to be a heel, and looked around for Rogers.

Steve Rogers was standing awkwardly near the opposite end of the scene, fidgeting a little in the shadow between two streetlamps. His eyes seemed fixed on a blanket-covered lump illuminated by headlights. Even at this distance, I could see a slick red stain on the pavement. My stomach twisted.

"Agent Rogers," I said aloud as I sidled up beside him. His hat and overcoat glistened with rain, but other than that he was dressed as neatly as he had been in Coulson's office, tie, hat and all. Not a hair out of place. They sure didn't teach us that trick in my unit.

"Barton," Rogers greeted me. He had a peculiar expression. A little sick, even.

I raised an eyebrow at him. Who would have thought Captain America was still squeamish? He really was a rookie. "How many murder scenes have you worked, Rogers?" I asked.

He suddenly looked a lot younger than his years. "This is, uh, the…first." His eyes wandered back to the blanket-covered lump that had been a woman and he swallowed. "I mean, it shouldn't-I've seen…"

I knew what he meant. Blood and carnage and death on the battlefield was one thing; this was something else. "It's different here," I said shortly. "At home."

Rogers glanced at me uncertainly, and I gave him a half smile. He looked so relieved, like a puppy that finally understood a new trick, that I nearly laughed. His shoulders didn't slump, but he relaxed a little.

"That's Talbot," Rogers told me, pointing at a short, irritable looking Chicago man in the trilby and scowl of a lieutenant. "He's in charge. Nelson's the guy who found her and Banner," Rogers gestured to a tall, thin cop with a wide mustache. He swallowed and jerked his head towards a car nearby, where a huddled figure crouched between two policemen. "That's Banner."

I bit my lip, considering. I was desperate to question Banner, if the Chicago cops would let me, but I needed to get a sense for the situation before I did. "C'mon, let's get a quick look around," I said. "If that lieutenant will let us on his turf."

"He will," Rogers said confidently. "He's a big fan." It took me a moment to get it. I glanced up at him, gaping like an idiot. Rogers winked at me. "There are _some_ perks to being Captain America."

"Fair enough," I said with a snort of laughter.

He quickly sobered again as we approached the brightly lit area surrounding the body. It looked like the evidence boys were wrapping up, and nobody yelled at me when I walked over.

It was even worse up close than it had looked at a distance. There was blood _everywhere_, collected into a sticky pool only half-covered by the blanket, smeared by feet and limbs all around the pavement. I took care not to step in any of it. There weren't any shells or casings I could see, and there was too much blood for her to have been strangled. Rogers was stiff and quiet at my elbow.

I crouched near where her head should have been and glanced up at one of the evidence boys. "Cause of death?"

He shrugged and tugged the blanket back from the body. She was face down, thank God, if there was still a face under the blood-soaked long hair that stuck out from something pulpy. Behind me, there was a sharp intake of breath from Rogers. I managed to keep a straight face, but my stomach twisted and I couldn't help swallowing hard.

"Near as we can tell," the man said disinterestedly. It was just another night for him. "Her head was smashed into the pavement. Repeatedly."

"Jesus," I muttered, unable to help glancing over my shoulder towards Banner.

"Chair's too good for that one," he mused idly.

I ignored him and made myself look down the length of the body. She was dressed in what had been a silk slip, trimmed with delicate lace around the hem. It had been torn in several places; the delicate fabric shredded and soaked with rain and blood. She was barefoot, and near as I could tell, there was no ring on her finger or any other jewelry for that matter. I didn't see any other obvious injuries.

I caught the evidence man's eye and nodded. He threw the blanket back over her body and gestured to a couple of coroner's orderlies. Rogers had retreated several paces, hunched into his coat against the rain. I badly wanted a drink, but I'd catch hell if I tried to question Banner with alcohol on my breath. I reached for a cigarette instead to steady my nerves. I could feel Rogers' eyes on me, but this time they were more covetous than irritated.

"Smoke?" I asked him, while they wrapped the girl up and put her on a gurney. He shook his head mutely and I shrugged. "Suit yourself. The cop next. Then Banner, if they'll let us."

Nelson stood a few paces down from Rogers, also watching as they placed the body in the coroner's van. His thin face was surprisingly open for a policeman, and he certainly looked a little more good-natured than your typical beat cop. I wondered how long he'd been on the force. I jerked my head at Rogers and we approached.

"Officer Nelson?" I asked, offering him a hand. "Special Agent Clint Barton. You already met my partner, Agent Rogers. I understand you found the body?"

Nelson had a good grip, firm, but I wasn't going to lose any fingers. He nodded to Rogers. "I did, Agent Barton. The man, too. Bruce Banner."

I shot a questioning look at Rogers. He cleared his throat. "Coulson had his picture sent over to Missing Persons."

"Good eye," I observed. "You mind telling me how it happened?"

"Not much to tell," Nelson shrugged. The silver star on his breast glinted with the gesture. "I was walking my beat, turned the corner, and there she was. Blood everywhere. He was lying nearby. There was so much blood I thought he was dead, too, at first. Recognized him from his picture and called it in."

Rogers and I exchanged a look. "Did you notice anything unusual tonight?" I cut in. "Unfamiliar people or vehicles?"

"Nope, not a thing. But this stretch is near the end of my beat."

"No witnesses?"

"Place was deserted."

"Canvassing won't do any good, not in this neighborhood," I mused, for Rogers' benefit. "Thanks, Officer. We appreciate it."

I rubbed my chin thoughtfully. I didn't like that nobody had heard anything, but not liking it didn't change anything. The only real witness we had so far was Bruce Banner himself. I liked that less.

Banner was huddled on the wet pavement, shivering in the pre-dawn chill. His shirt was gone, and his trousers hung in shreds. He was covered in blood, spattered from his chin to his hands, which were handcuffed tightly behind his back. They must have already photographed him because they hadn't bothered to get him out of the rain. Clearly he had already been tried and found guilty in the court of police opinion. My jaw tightened angrily.

The two officers flanking him stepped up to confront me when I approached. I gave them back their glares. "What do you want?" one of them demanded.

I held up my badge again. They didn't merit asking nicely, and I had about as many problems as a full-bird pulling rank as a Fed. "Scram," I ordered without further preamble. "Go take the air. I want a word with the doc, here."

I wasn't making any friends with the Chicago police that night, that was for sure. They slouched off, grumbling mutinously. I could feel Rogers' disapproval at my rudeness boring into my back. That would keep for later.

"Dr. Banner?" I called, and he looked up. The soft brown eyes were wide and uncomprehending in a blood- smeared face. His unruly hair was drenched with rain and possibly worse. He was shaking something awful, and his lips were blue with cold.

I shrugged out of my overcoat and quickly patted the pockets to make sure I wasn't giving the Chicago cops any additional reasons to hate me by accidentally slipping the prisoner a weapon or a threatening pack of smokes. I dropped it over his shoulders. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Rogers frown.

"Thank you," Banner mumbled automatically. He sounded numb.

I crouched so I could look him in the eye. "Dr. Banner, I'm Special Agent Clint Barton. This is my partner, Steve Rogers. We're with the FBI. Are you all right?"

Banner blinked slowly. His eyes were more-or-less focused and he didn't _exactly _seem drugged, but there was a dazed quality about him that I didn't like. "Please, what's going on?"

I studied him. I couldn't see a mark on him, but it was always possible he'd been sapped. That wouldn't show through his thick hair. "You're being arrested," I explained, watching him carefully. "There's nothing we can do about that now, but we'll try to get you transferred to federal custody until we can sort this out."

"They're saying I killed someone, Agent Barton," Banner said in a hollow voice. He shuddered and shifted uncomfortably in the handcuffs. "Can-can you sort that out?"

Rogers nudged me with the toe of his shoe, and I glanced over my shoulder. The policemen were returning, with the lieutenant, to take Banner away. I didn't feel testy enough for that shouting match, so I stood to leave. Banner's eyes followed me desperately.

"I don't know," I replied. "That depends. Did you?"

His eyes fell to the pavement. "Thanks," he said quietly. "For your honesty."

* * *

><p>Rogers managed to keep his mouth shut all the way back to my car. We sat inside, waiting for the black-and-whites and the coroner's van to clear out. I lit a cigarette while I gathered my thoughts, though I opened the window in deference to Rogers.<p>

"What was that all about?" he finally asked, sounding annoyed.

"What?"

"Banner," Rogers said shortly. "The coat."

My temper flared at his tone. "You never woke up in some alley with no idea how you got there?" I demanded.

Rogers shrugged a little and I let out an exasperated snort. I had, more than once, in those dark days after the war and later the divorce. It had been Phil Coulson who had dragged me out and given me his coat, then. I could feel for Banner. Maybe more than I should.

"Barton, we found him at the scene, covered with blood. He killed that girl," Rogers protested. "You saw what she looked like!"

"Jesus, you too?" I snapped at him. "Whatever happened to innocent until proven guilty?"

He flinched like I'd struck him. The patriotic jaw tightened, and for a pair of heartbeats I thought he was going to deck me. I tensed, but the moment passed. Rogers' eyes fell to his lap. He studied his knuckles for a moment before he replied.

"Guess I deserved that," he admitted. "You're right. But, Barton, you have to admit it looks bad."

"It does," I agreed.

Rogers turned to look me in the eye, his face earnest. "Do you _really_ think he didn't kill her?"

I bit the inside of my lip. I didn't have one whit of real evidence to suggest otherwise. All I had was a gut feeling, an instinct, pure and simple. And my gut told me, no matter how bad it might _look_, that Banner didn't do it.

"No," I said after a moment of hesitation, "I don't." I took a long puff on my cigarette and exhaled slowly. "It's all a little too neat for me."

"_Neat?"_

"Not like that," I retorted, irritated that my train of thought had been derailed. "The scene didn't look right. Dead girl, blood everywhere, guy nearby covered in blood. There wasn't a mark anywhere on Banner, or the girl, so far as I could tell." I took another drag on my cigarette and looked back through the windshield towards the glow of downtown. "Violent death like that, you'd expect a struggle. You'd expect scratches and scrapes and bruises."

"So the girl was drugged," Rogers said. His lips pulled back from his teeth a little in righteous distaste. I couldn't say I didn't agree with that assessment.

I shrugged. "Maybe she was." I stubbed my cigarette out and flicked the butt out the window. "I don't like the timing, either. Too convenient. You're telling me a prominent scientist with a top secret clearance and not so much as a parking ticket to his name disappears on a bender only to turn up the day after the Fed gets involved, having murdered a dame?"

There was indecision in Rogers' eyes. "Stranger things," he said with a shrug.

He had a point. It was entirely possible that Banner had killed that girl. I'd seen stranger coincidences both as an agent and during the war, and I knew Rogers had, too. "Still," I mused, "it's all a little too neat, too perfect, for my tastes."

"You think the Chicago cops are going to see it like that?"

I snorted. "Hell, no. They have a dead girl and some poor sap to pin it on. Case closed."

Rogers' lips pursed into a fine line. "I still think he did it," he said earnestly. "But everyone deserves a fair shake in the eyes of the law."

I started the Ford and pulled out into the street. For Banner's sake, I hoped Phil Coulson would manage to keep us on the case.


	4. Chapter 4

**That Radium Glow**

Chapter 4

The gentle curve of Lake Shore Drive, illuminated with glowing yellow streetlamps, clung like a pearl necklace to the black void of the lake. We drove north in contemplative silence. Rogers and I would wait at my place until Coulson could figure out the jurisdictional mess of Banner's case.

I had the feeling it was going to be a long day and we'd have to look the part of respectable Feds, so I laid out a fresh shirt and my least wrinkled suit. Rogers surprised me by busying himself in the kitchen while I showered, and when I emerged, clean and dripping, the smell of coffee and bacon had permeated my little flat. My stomach rumbled hungrily while I dressed and shaved.

The telephone rang, and I heard Rogers answer it through the bathroom door. By the time I'd rinsed and toweled off, he'd hung up. Two plates of bacon and eggs, one half-eaten, were set out with the precision of a military mess on the table. I took a seat in front of the untouched plate and dug in with satisfaction. There was something about hot food that just made a guy feel generally at peace with the world. I was already feeling a lot more human, even before coffee.

Rogers emerged from the kitchen in his shirtsleeves with two steaming mugs of coffee. "Gee, Cap, you cook for all your dates?" I quipped.

A shadow flashed over Rogers' face, so quickly I thought I'd imagined it. "One time offer; new partners only," he retorted with a smile, but I could tell his heart wasn't in the banter. I raised an eyebrow. He passed a mug to me and sat down to finish his eggs. "Coulson called. Said he had to raise hell about national security and call in his last favor with the chief, but we're keeping the case. At least until they've got enough to formally charge Banner with murder. Then they take over."

I took a long drink of coffee and nodded approvingly. Rogers made a good cup. I'd let his sad look and changing the subject ride, at least for now. God knew I didn't want him prying in my personal affairs. "Fair enough," I said around a half-eaten piece of bacon. "With some luck, that will give us through the autopsy."

* * *

><p>The day dawned gray and blustery, though the rain had since faded to a half-hearted drizzle. The city around the central police station never really slept, not with the constant coming and going of beat cops and black-and-whites, but it was slow to come to life at that early hour. The only sign of non-police movement was a man delivering stacks of the Tribune.<p>

We showed our badges to the desk sergeant, who snarled and scowled at us just in case we were feeling welcome on police turf. A young patrolman led us up to the interview room. Talbot was standing outside, looking sour in his lieutenant's bars while we rustled his case. I winked at him, and heard Rogers sigh with exasperation. I opened the door.

Bruce Banner was already inside, seated at a small rickety-looking table in an even more fragile looking chair. He was leaning forward with his elbows on the table, cradling his head in his hands. I could see the metallic glimmer of handcuffs around his wrists. He was dressed in an ill-fitting gray shirt and pants, though still barefoot. Evidently they had let him get cleaned up, because I didn't see any blood on his hands. He glanced up at the sound of the door, and I could see his face was clean as well. In the four-odd years I'd been an agent, I'd never seen anyone look so relieved to see a pair of Feds.

"Doctor Banner," Rogers greeted him cautiously. "I'm Agent Rogers, and this is Agent-"

"Barton, right?" Banner said in a soft voice. His eyes were much clearer than they had been when I last saw him. They dropped back to the table. "You were, uh, kind to me last night. I remember."

I felt my cheeks go warm at the tired gratitude in his voice. "Don't mention it," I shrugged uncomfortably.

Rogers glanced at me as if asking for approval, and I gave him the fraction of a nod. Letting him lead was a bit of a risk, as questioning Banner was going to be a delicate thing. He was a smart guy and probably knew enough law to know his rights, and our job would get a lot harder if he decided to lawyer up. We'd have to be a little gentler with him than I'd normally be with someone accused of such a brutal crime.

"We have a few questions about last night," Rogers stated.

"I figured as much," Banner replied quietly, reaching up with his bound hands to rub his face. He sounded drained. I guess that was understandable. "You and everyone else."

I raised an eyebrow. This was usually when the chorus of_ I didn't do it, it wasn't me, I've been framed! _started. "And the past few days," I added.

Banner looked up sharply. "Days?"

Rogers and I exchanged a look. "Doctor, you've been missing for three days."

The blood drained so rapidly from Banner's face that for a moment I thought he might faint. "What?"

"Near as we can tell, you disappeared sometime Sunday night," Rogers said neutrally.

Banner's eyes went wide and flicked rapidly between me and Rogers. "W-what day is it?" he stammered.

"Thursday," I told him.

"But that- that can't be right!" he exclaimed. He tried to run a hand anxiously through his hair, but with his wrists bound, it was impossible. He slumped back into his hands. "Oh _god._"

We didn't have time to waste with him going to pieces on us. "Dr. Banner!" I said sharply, and Banner looked up. He looked sick and more than a little scared. My heart twisted sympathetically but I kept my neutral lawman voice. "Please. What's the last thing you remember?"

"Waking up in the alley," he said in a shaky voice. His eyes closed. He swallowed hard and pulled himself together. "It was wet, cold. Someone was touching my neck, uh, feeling for a pulse, I guess. Then the shouting started, and the next thing I knew I was in handcuffs."

"No idea how you got there?" Rogers asked.

He shuddered. "None at all."

Rogers and I looked at each other again. If it was an act, it was a damn good one. My gut told me it wasn't. "And before that?" I prompted.

Banner's eyes closed again in thought. "Uh, leaving Tony's," he said. He took a shuddering breath and let it out slowly. "Tony Stark's, I mean. I think there was a taxi," he elaborated. Apparently he was afraid it sounded ridiculous that he knew millionaire Tony Stark, because he quickly continued: "We worked together in the war; I was at a party there-"

"We know," Rogers interjected. His poker face was a lot better in the interrogation room than Coulson's office; I'd give him that. "We talked to Stark."

"That was Sunday night," I reiterated. Banner's eyes flicked desperately to me but I had no comfort to offer him. "So you're saying you don't remember anything that occurred between Sunday night and very early this morning?"

Banner's hands dropped to the tabletop. The thumb of his right hand began to work nervously over the knuckles of his left, over and over and over. He looked sick. "I guess I am," he said softly.

Rogers leaned back in his chair, studying him intently. I got up and poured a glass of water. I handed it to Banner and took my own seat. His knuckles were white on the glass and his hand shook as he sipped it.

"Do you drink, Dr. Banner?" Rogers asked neutrally.

Banner set the glass down and rubbed a hand across his face. "Not really," he said, with just enough embarrassment that I knew he was telling the truth. "Sometimes."

"Did you drink at the party?" I asked.

"Yes," he replied, looking ashamed. "Tony- Mr. Stark…well, you met him. He's a difficult man to refuse."

I smirked. Rogers' eyes narrowed slightly. I'd heard it too, a slight reluctant note in Banner's voice under the raw fear and panic.

"What did you and Mr. Stark talk about, Dr. Banner?" Rogers asked.

He sat bolt upright in surprise. "How-"

I glanced approvingly at Rogers. It was a good catch. "Just answer the question, please, Doctor."

Banner sighed. "I had a fight with my fiancée," he admitted. "Over the telephone. She's in New Mexico, visiting her father. He's never liked me and he's, uh… sore over the wedding. Going to the party was just an excuse for me to see Tony. I went to him for advice."

"Stark doesn't exactly seem the marrying kind," I observed.

"He's not," Banner said without looking up. "But he knows the General." He sighed again sadly. "Does Betty know I'm here?"

I'd throw him the bone. There was no harm in his knowing, anyway. "We've been trying to contact her, but the Air Corps is making it difficult," I told him.

He chuckled hollowly. "That sounds like General Ross, all right."

"What did you fight about?" I asked.

Banner let out another humorless chuckle. The corner of his mouth tugged upward. "You know, I don't even remember," he said sheepishly. "It seems so…trivial, now."

"Have you ever been to the Black Widow Bar?" Rogers asked, clearly hoping to catch him off guard.

He seemed puzzled by the quick change of subject. "I don't think so," Banner said hesitantly, turning to face him. "I don't go out much."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes," Banner replied. He shot a pleading look in my direction, but I let Rogers continue his bombardment. It was a risk, but I thought it worth taking.

"You were seen there the night of Stark's party," Rogers said flatly. "In the company of a tall, dark-haired man. Had an English accent. Sound like anyone you know?"

"I-I don't know," Banner stammered. "I've never been to the Black Widow, that I can remember. And I don't know anyone English by that description, I swear."

"There are a lot of gaps in your memory, Dr. Banner," Rogers observed. He stared at Banner with a cold blue gaze that would have made Stalin himself squirm. "Inconvenient. Or convenient, depending on how you look at it."

I held my breath. If he was going to lawyer up, Rogers' words were probably going to be what pushed him over the edge. Banner went very pale. "Oh my god," he breathed, looking between us. "You-you really think I killed that girl, don't you?"

"Nobody's saying that," Rogers said. The _yet_ was implied. His chair scraped loudly across the floor as he pushed back from the table. Banner flinched at the harsh sound. Rogers rose and stalked out into the hall.

It was a classic move; right out of the academy. He was leaving me, the friendly face, to try to get a little more out of Banner. It also gave him a chance to compare notes with Lt. Talbot without me there to rile him up. I chuckled inwardly. Not bad for a rookie.

The table creaked as Banner sighed and slumped onto his elbows, completely overwhelmed. I had a green light, now that Rogers was out of the room. I pulled my flask from my breast pocket and unscrewed the top. I took a quick friendly nip and offered it to Banner. He hesitated, and I smirked. "Go on, you look like you need a drink."

"Thanks," he said. He took a large swig and coughed. "See, told you I don't drink much."

I chuckled, but Banner looked so, well, _scared_, that I quickly sobered. "For what it's worth," I said aloud, "I don't think you did it."

Anyone else would have jumped on the opportunity to again tell me how innocent they were. Banner didn't. Any doubts I had that he legitimately did not remember where he had been or what he had done these past three days were rapidly evaporating. Nobody in their right mind would use that as a defense if they had any reason _not_ to do so.

"Captain America seems to," Banner replied glumly.

I leaned casually on the edge of the table. "Well, even Captain America has to prove that, in a court of law."

"True," Banner said with a sigh. He didn't sound hopeful, not that I could blame him. He reached up to squeeze the bridge of his nose. "I presume you're going to be searching my office?"

"Your home, too," I replied with a shrug. "Standard operating procedure."

Banner flinched at the thought of the invasion, but there wasn't anything he could do about it. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I see," he said in a passably even voice. He glanced up at me sheepishly. "I'm…I'm not in a position to ask for anything, but I, uh, seem to have lost my pills."

"Pills?"

"They're nothing special, just to protect against accidental exposure to radiation," Banner explained. His fingers worked together anxiously, over and over, on the table. "You have to take them every day to maintain the effect. If by some miracle I get out of this, Agent Barton, I'd like to return to my work as soon as possible."

I studied him. It was a small enough favor, and it might win me some crucial trust with Banner. "I'll keep an eye out."

"Thanks," he said quietly.

There was a knock on the door. That would be Rogers. I levered myself off the edge of the table and left Banner to worrying his knuckles.

* * *

><p>Rogers was waiting for me outside, frowning. He had a bag containing a slender leather wallet, a tiny silver pillbox, decorated with a geometric turquoise inlay, and a pair of wire-rimmed reading glasses.<p>

"The stuff Banner had on him when they brought him in," he said by way of explanation.

I took out the pillbox and twisted it open. Four or five little green pills stared back at me. I closed it and tossed it back in the bag. "Apparently the pills are for radiation," I told him. "Some kind of prophylactic."

Rogers grunted in acknowledgement and handed me the wallet. I quickly rifled through it. A little cash, a few business cards with addresses mostly around the University, a driver's license, and what appeared to be a government-issue identification badge emblazoned: "ARGONNE NATIONAL LABORATORY". Nothing we didn't already know. I tossed the wallet back to Rogers and sighed.

"I think he's being honest," I said. "He really doesn't remember what happened, for three solid days. You got to wonder why."

"I don't like it, either," Rogers said. "But that doesn't mean he didn't kill her." He handed the bag of evidence back to the lieutenant and we moved to leave. We'd spent enough time this morning in hostile territory. "What I do like," he added while we walked to my car, "is that he went overboard at Stark's party because he was upset with his fiancée. Ended up at the Black Widow for a few more, one thing lead to another…and, boom, dead girl."

It was a plausible scenario, and in our business, the simple explanations were usually the right ones. But it still didn't feel _right_ to me. "Three days, though? That's one _hell_ of a bender, Rogers. I've a hard time seeing a quiet guy like Banner on one of those."

"You'd be surprised," Rogers said with a shrug. That statement smacked of personal experience. I shot him a questioning look, but he refused to elaborate. "What do you have in mind for our next move?"

I sighed and started up the Ford. So far this case had been nothing but a lack of breaks, and it was getting frustrating. "Search his house and office," I said. "We need to figure out who this English guy is. Guess we got to do it the hard way."

* * *

><p>The weather had not improved during our interview with Banner. I'd managed to retrieve my overcoat before leaving the station, and I was glad of it, because the wind was gusting off the lake again. Rogers was quiet, watching out the window with interest as we drove south, away from downtown. It had been so long since any of the city had been new to me.<p>

The gothic towers of the University of Chicago sprouted incongruously from the surrounding neighborhood like a diamond tiara on a dowager's fading gray hair. The grass of the quadrangles was brilliantly green against the gray stone and the gray sky, though the trees were still bare. Rainwater dripped from their naked branches and down my neck, somehow always managing to find the gap between my collar and the brim of my hat. The air smelled like books and manifestos, mingled with a whiff of trust fund. I hunched uncomfortably into the protection of my coat and pulled my hat brim a little lower. I should have stayed in the car.

Rogers, on the other hand, seemed perfectly at home in this bastion of academic life. I followed as he cut confidently through the crowds of co-eds in slicked back hair and letter sweaters, or bobby socks and saddle shoes. Unlike me, he looked like he belonged. A little part of me envied him for it.

"I should have realized you were a college boy," I grumbled while we walked towards the building a gawky boy in glasses had indicated as housing the Metallurgical Laboratory. It didn't make any sense to me, either, but Rogers seemed to know more about Banner and his project than I did. As I didn't have any better ideas, I trusted his opinion.

"Not quite two years at Columbia," Rogers said, and there was a note of pride in his voice. "Before the war."

"What did you study?" I asked.

"Art," he replied, and I did a double take.

"You?" I exclaimed. "Captain America studied _art_? They sure didn't put that in the newsreels!" I prodded gleefully.

He shot me an exasperated look. "Oh put a lid on it, Barton."

I grinned. "You can do the talking, then, College Boy."

Rogers rolled his eyes, and I followed him inside. Another student pointed us in the direction of Banner's office, and with the assistance of our badges, we convinced a secretary to open his door.

Banner's office was small and pleasantly cluttered. Academic journals and mimeographs littered his desk around a shiny black typewriter. Most of the wall space was taken up between a small window and bookshelves, which sagged under the weight of books with titles I did not understand, but sounded very scientific. A large piece of foamy-looking green glass sat on one shelf, beside a small photograph of four men in a cheap cardboard frame. I picked it up while Rogers rifled through Banner's desk.

The men in the photograph were outside, in what looked like somewhere in the Southwest. The mangled remains of something steel were twisted in front of them. I recognized Banner, looking a little thinner and a lot happier. Tony Stark stood beside him, with a rakish grin and his arm thrown over one of Banner's shoulders. I did not recognize the other two men. One was tall and unsmiling, with his arms folded across his chest. There were thick white streaks in his dark hair along his temples, and he stood a little aloof from the others. The fourth man was shorter and blond. He smiled, though he did not look particularly happy. I flipped the frame over. It was labeled in black ink, in a fine, feminine hand: "It worked! B. Banner, A. Stark, R. Richards, H. Pym, 1945."

"Barton," Rogers said. He held up a pill bottle. "More pills."

"Bring 'em along," I said, handing him the photograph. "Take a look at this. Guy on the end is tall with dark hair."

"You think that might be the one Miss Romanoff saw?" Rogers asked.

"It's possible," I said. "She would have-"

I was interrupted by a frantic shout of "Dr. Banner! Dr. Banner!" from the hall outside. Rogers and I looked at each other, puzzled. A second later, a kid in a maroon sweater emblazoned with a large white C skidded into Banner's office. He froze in the doorway when he saw me and Rogers.

"Uh, sorry," he panted. There was a piece of paper clutched in his right hand. He looked between us suspiciously. "Where's Dr. Banner? Has he come back yet? He really needs to see this telegram."

"Dr. Banner won't be back for a few days," I explained, hoping it wasn't a total lie. I held up my badge and the kid's eyes went wide as saucers. "Government business. Who are you, kid?"

"Uh, Rick Jones," he said nervously. "I'm one of Dr. Banner's students. Is he in trouble?"

"I'm afraid we can't comment on that," Rogers said smoothly. "May I see that, please?"

Jones handed him the telegram. "It's one of Dr. Banner's colleagues," he explained. "Dr. Pym, out in California. He's been found dead."

I retrieved the photograph from Banner's desk and slipped it into my breast pocket. Pym, like H. Pym. Rogers and I exchanged looks and I knew he had realized the same thing. He looked like he liked it even less than I did.

"We'll be sure to let him know," Rogers told Rick Jones. It was a dismissal. The kid looked like he wanted to ask for the telegram back, but Rogers raised his eyebrows at him. The kid swallowed and left the office. "I vote we check his apartment," Rogers said to me in a low voice. "And then we get Maria Hill working on this Pym fellow. According to the telegram, he'd been dead for weeks when they found the body. I don't like this timing, Barton."

"Agreed," I said. "Might be a coincidence. Might not."

We never made it to Banner's apartment. As soon as I started my car, the radio hissed and crackled to life. _"Agent Barton. Agent Rogers. Please come in, over."_

I glanced at Rogers and lifted the transmitter. "Barton here," I said. "What is it, Miss Hill?"

"_Where have you been? I've been trying to raise you for an hour!"_

Rogers smirked and I rolled my eyes. "Doing very important police work, Miss Hill. The kind that requires leaving the car. What's the emergency?"

"_You're not going to believe this,"_ Maria Hill's voice crackled. _"Banner's had some kind of breakdown. The cops aren't being forthcoming but it sounds like it was pretty violent. They've taken him to the psych ward at Cook County."_

"The hell?" I muttered to Rogers. "He seem crazy to you when we talked to him?"

"Not at all," Rogers said. His eyes were narrowed suspiciously. "Certainly not like that. The dead girl might disagree."

"Point," I grunted. I clicked the transmitter button. "Thanks, Miss Hill. We'll go right away."

* * *

><p><em>to be continued... please review! 3<em>


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: yep, two chapters in one weekend as a thank you to you reviewers. Don't get too used to it! ;)  
><em>

* * *

><p><strong>That Radium Glow<strong>

Chapter 5

I'd never liked hospitals, and Cook County was no exception. It loomed over Harrison Street, the gray stone and yellow brick façade looking sick and sinister slicked with rain. Water dripped from the stonework wreaths that gaped like panting mouths above the windows. Only some of them had bars.

I gritted my teeth and gamely followed Steve Rogers while a nurse led us through the busy corridors, our wet shoes squeaking in protest on the tiredly gleaming floors. The tang of antiseptic with an emphatic note of bleach was enough to get my heart pounding, even without the unsettling whiff of death below. It took me back to bloodstained days made gauzy with pain and morphine and more pain and more morphine. My scar twinged and I rubbed it without thought.

It wasn't until we were standing outside the steel-clad doors of the closed ward, waiting for an orderly to determine that we were indeed allowed to be there, that I noticed Rogers running the brim of his hat through his fingers. He gave a little bounce on the balls of his feet every time he completed a circuit. He noticed me looking after a moment and raised his eyebrows.

"What?"

A smirk tugged at the corner of my lips. Least I wasn't the only one nervous. "Nothing," I said innocently.

Rogers shot me an exasperated look, but the heavy door swung open before he had a chance to reply. We both put our lawman faces back on and stepped inside. I managed not to jump out of my skin when the door slammed shut behind us.

"If you'll follow me," an orderly said behind us. His hair was cropped close to his skull, and his white clothes were gone a little dingy with age. He looked like he could take care of himself. I supposed they all did, even the nurses.

The closed ward was quieter than I expected, though the occasional peal of keening laughter made the little hairs rise on the back of my neck. I tried not to think about how all the windows were barred, or how we'd never find out way out of this warren without the orderly's help. Rogers moved stiffly at my side. He carried himself a little differently, pushing his elbow out to give clearer access to his shoulder holster. I wondered if he knew he was doing it.

A couple of Chicago boys in police blue were loafing to either side of a heavy door with a curious little knob in it at about eye height. One of them was sporting one hell of a shiner and a set of scratches along the side of his neck. The other was Lt. Talbot, though it took me a moment to recognize him with what had been his nose smeared all over his face.

"You walk into a door or something?" I asked.

"Nuts to you, Barton," Talbot scowled, and I grinned. He reached up to touch a piece of tape across the bridge of his nose. His eyes flicked to Rogers. "I been a cop for sixteen years," he said sourly. "Sixteen years, and I ain't seen nothing like it. There's two more guys downstairs getting stitched up as we speak."

"_Banner_ did all this?" Rogers asked incredulously. I managed not to snort. The idea of Bruce Banner summoning the gumption to punch _anyone_, let alone beat the hell out of four cops, was absurd. "He was in handcuffs!"

"_Was_ in handcuffs," Talbot said darkly. That gave me pause. Breaking out of handcuffs was no mean feat.

"I worked a couple psycho cases," the other cop said, nodding sagely. Rogers' eyes flashed at the description, but he didn't say anything. "I seen it before. They got strength you can't even imagine."

Talbot twiddled a cigarette he wasn't allowed to light between his fingers. "Took four guys to hold him down 'til someone could knock him out. Ain't seen nothing like it. Polite as pie one minute, beating Stacy with a chair leg the next."

Rogers and I exchanged a look. Absurd as their story sounded, their injuries made me think it wasn't all just some excuse to give Banner a harder time. I approached the door and used the knob to slide a little panel to one side so I could see in.

I recognized Banner by his tousled curls, slumped against one of the padded walls of the cell and looking thoroughly pathetic pinioned in a stained canvas jacket that had once been white. I could see the edge of a leather strap and the hint of a metal buckle where his hands would have been, firmly behind his back. My stomach twisted and I quickly closed the panel.

"May I help you?" a new voice said, and Rogers and I both turned.

A man in a pristine white coat approached us with a confident, graceful stride from a side passage. Right away I could see he was tall, a little taller than Rogers, and his black hair was combed neatly back from his forehead with the assistance of pomade. An impeccably cut black suit clung to his long, thin limbs beneath the white coat, and he wore a dark green tie.

"We'd like to speak with Dr. Banner," Rogers said. The words were polite, but an edge had crept into his voice. He nudged me and we both held up our badges. "I'm Agent Rogers, and this is Agent Barton."

He leaned forward to study our badges carefully, intelligent green eyes flicking upward to compare our faces with our photographs. Finally, he straightened and offered me a hand. He had long fingers to match his long limbs, and a good grip, though his skin was cold. "Dr. Leonard Samson. I am the psychiatrist attending to Dr. Banner."

His voice was cool, with a trace of Oxford or Cambridge or some such place. An opulent voice, untouched by air raids and rationing. Alarm bells rang in my head, and for some reason the name sounded familiar. I couldn't place it. He fit Natasha's description, sure enough, though he struck me as too well-heeled for the Black Widow's usual clientele. I decided to sit on that until I could speak to Rogers privately.

Lt. Talbot and his nameless companion lurked nearby. I gave them my steeliest glare and they wandered a discreet distance down the corridor.

"Do you know what happened, Doctor?" Rogers asked, as soon as they were more-or-less out of earshot.

"As near as I can tell, Agent Rogers, Dr. Banner suffered from some kind of psychotic episode. The onset was sudden and the result violent," Samson said. He paused to study his fingernails for a moment before replying, clearly weighing his words. "I myself was witness only to the very end of this episode, when he was brought in and sedated."

I knew the feeling of straps and a cold needle in the arm. Sweat beaded on the back of my neck, and I had to remind myself that the musty smell in the air was mildew and not jungle loam. I didn't mince words. "Any idea what might have caused it?"

Samson studied me. He had the best damn poker face I had ever seen. "If you are asking for a diagnosis, Agent Barton, I am afraid you shall be disappointed. Nor will I compromise a patient by hazarding a mere guess for the sake of your investigation. The fact of the matter is that I simply need more time."

Rogers' eyes narrowed a little. "Dr. Samson," he said firmly. "Dr. Banner is under suspicion of murder. If his mental state could have played into that in any way, we need to know."

"Is he faking it, you mean?" Samson retorted, with a humorless little laugh that showed all his teeth. He had a predatory smile that sent a chill down my spine I couldn't explain. "Again, I should need more time to be completely accurate. But my initial instinct is no. His symptoms appear to be very real, Agent Rogers."

"Would he remember anything he did during these episodes?" I asked.

Samson shrugged elegantly. "I would say it would be unlikely. But it is possible. He seemed unaware that this last episode had occurred when I spoke to him."

"May we speak to him, now?" Rogers asked.

"I see no harm in it," Samson said, moving to unlock the door to Banner's cell. "So long as you are brief. I warn you, he may not yet be fully coherent."

"I'll risk it," I told him, and slipped past him inside. Rogers stayed near the doorway, ready to act in case Banner lost it again.

The smell hit me like a two-by-four to the face. The pungent aroma of sweat and worse mingled in the stuffy air. I stepped forward onto the stained canvas-covered padding, hating how it compressed under my shoe.

Banner looked up fearfully at the sound of the door, but he seemed unable or unwilling to lever himself away from the padded wall. His face crumpled with relief when he recognized me. "Agent Barton?" he asked in a dazed, shaky voice. "Where am I?"

I frowned a little. Samson had given me the impression this conversation had already taken place, and I didn't like that Banner couldn't remember it. My heart sank. He was in no fit state to answer questions about Richards and Pym. I forced a slight smile anyway. I took a few steps closer and crouched, so I could look him in the eye. He blinked, too slowly for my taste, and his dark eyes were still glazed from whatever drugs Samson had shot him with.

"You're in the psych ward at Cook County," I explained slowly. "You sort of….lost it, Doc. You attacked some policemen."

Banner's eyes closed briefly and he swallowed. I could tell it was taking everything he had left to keep it together. "Did-did I hurt anyone?"

"Nothing they haven't all had before, and worse," I said, trying to keep my voice light. "No real harm done."

Banner shuddered and slumped with shame. His hair hung over his face, obscuring my view of his eyes. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I-I didn't mean to hurt anyone."

"Dr. Banner," I said. He did not respond. "Bruce," I said sharply, and he looked up with those glazed eyes. A chill went down my spine. "Do you remember anything about the, uh, attack?"

Banner shook his head as much as he could without removing his cheek from the padded wall. He slowly licked dry lips. "The last thing I remember is talking to you, A-Agent Barton. You gave me a drink."

I glanced at Rogers over my shoulder. His face was inscrutable under his lawman expression, but his eyes were troubled. This was the second time in four days that Bruce Banner had long gaps in his memory, and he'd now proven he could mete out some serious violence during those blank periods. Regardless of my gut, it wasn't looking good for Banner.

I turned back to Banner and forced another smile. "We found your pills," I said, standing to leave. "I'll leave them with Dr. Samson. And we'll be back, when you're feeling more up to it."

"Thank you," he said listlessly.

I suppressed a shudder and got the hell out of there. Samson shut the door behind me. I heard a key scraping in a lock as I ran a hand through my damp hair. Rogers handed Samson the pill bottle. We had taken a few out as evidence, but he didn't need to know that. In turn, Samson handed Rogers a card. There was an Edgewater telephone number scribbled in a fine hand on the back of it.

Rogers cocked his head slightly and looked up at Samson. "This is a Reno address."

Samson nodded. "Yes, my main practice is in Reno. I am only temporarily in Chicago. I've come to help instruct the psychiatric residents for a few months. Call it a sabbatical."

"I see," Rogers said neutrally, tucking the card into his coat. "Thanks for your time, Doctor. We'll be in touch."

Samson touched a button on the wall, and a moment later, a white-clad orderly appeared to show us out.

* * *

><p>"It's looking pretty grim for Banner," Rogers mused, while we drove back to the Federal Building. "Given what he did to those cops, Barton, he could have easily killed that girl. He might not have even known he was doing it."<p>

I had nothing to say to that. He had a point, and we both knew it. I didn't like it, though.

"What'd you think about Samson?" I asked, wishing I could light a cigarette while I drove. There was too much traffic out now to risk it, and I knew without asking that Rogers wouldn't do it for me. "You hear his accent?"

Rogers shrugged. "Fits the description we got from Ms. Romanoff," he said. "Doesn't seem the nightclub type, though."

I frowned a little and scratched my chin, thinking. "Check him out," I told Rogers. "I'm going to try Stark again. He ought to be able to help us with these Pym and Richards guys, at least."

* * *

><p>I dropped Rogers at the office and called Stark's private line from a telephone booth on Clark. It wasn't strictly protocol, but I didn't want to be overheard by anyone. To my surprise, Miss Potts answered after two rings. Mr. Stark was hosting a dinner at the Drake Hotel and would not return until late that night, but I could speak with him there. She would telephone ahead to inform him that I was coming. I thanked her and we hung up.<p>

I wasn't dressed for dinner at the Drake, but my badge ensured the cooperation of the snooty maître d', and a smile and a compliment or two won over the hostess. Stark's party was in the bar, which was paneled in leather and half the Black Forest and more masculine than a group of grunts showing off for their best girls. The hostess ensconced me in a little room off to one side, so I'd be out of the way, and more importantly, out of sight, until Stark could get away. It wouldn't do for the beautiful people to see Anthony Stark, chairman of Stark Industries, in the company of a Fed.

Inside the room were several large leather armchairs, pleasantly worn, and a couple of smoking stands. There were decanters of amber liquid on the stands, and the tang of old cigar smoke in the air. I lit a cigarette because it seemed appropriate and watched Stark through the cracked door.

This was the Tony Stark I knew from the newspapers and gossip rags. He was a study in charm as he worked the room; a masterwork of charisma, if some Old Master had worked in limelight and five-hundred-dollar tuxes instead of silks and oils. Here, his dazzling smile, there, a friendly touch on the arm or a playful smack on a hand. He cracked jokes with some, and helped others laugh at their own. He kept up the act and his easy saunter all the way across the bar, until he could peel himself away and into the smoking room.

I pulled the door shut behind Stark, and he let out a very faint sigh of relief. He dropped into one of the leather chairs and loosened his bowtie. Now that the blinding aura of charm had faded, I could see lines of fatigue around his eyes and the tired flush of alcohol in his cheeks. Stark touched the center of his chest briefly, but dropped his hand when he noticed my glance. He reached over to pour a couple drinks and handed me one. I took a grateful swallow.

"What can you tell me about this?" I asked him, pulling the photograph from Banner's office out of my pocket and tossing it casually onto the table. Stark's brow furrowed slightly as he studied it. He looked up at me warily. "Keep it general. I don't want the D.O.D. coming down on my ass."

Stark let out a snort of laughter at my informality. "Our working group, from the war," he told me. "Experimental weapons design and development." At my quizzical look, he added: "How to make a bigger bomb." Stark pointed to each face in turn. "Me, Banner, Reed Richards, and Hank Pym."

"So I gathered," I said. I indicated Richards. "What can you tell me about him?"

Stark eyed me suspiciously. I couldn't blame him for his caution; most of what he knew was Top Secret at minimum. "_Richards? _Why?"

"Banner was last seen with a tall, dark-haired man," I said with a shrug. "This Richards fits that description. He in town?"

Stark snorted again. "It wasn't Reed Richards."

"Sure?"

"Pretty sure," Stark drawled, studying his fingernails. "He's been dead for over a year."

There was a flicker of pain under the nonchalance in his voice, and I winced. Good one, Barton. "Sorry," I apologized.

Stark shrugged. "Cancer. Hazard of our line of work. The atom bites back."

"What did Richards do, exactly?" I asked.

"Theoretical physics," Stark replied, taking a long swallow of his scotch. He studied me for a moment, clearly weighing his words. Apparently he liked what he saw, because he continued. "Same as Banner, though Banner's more of a specialist. They figured out what was possible." Stark set down his glass and tapped Pym. "Pym's a materials guy; he developed whatever they needed to make the gadget work."

"What did you do?"

Stark grinned. "Engineer. I put it all together."

"I hate to be the bearer of bad news," I told him, "but Pym's dead. They pulled him out of Lake Mead a couple days ago."

His smile faded. "Christ," Stark sighed. He reached up and rubbed his temples. The tired lines around his eyes deepened. "Foul play?"

"Unclear," I said, thinking of the vague telegram.

"Christ," Stark sighed again. He lowered his hand and looked at me. "I'd heard he was missing, but… I knew he'd had some trouble in the past. I guess it finally caught up with him."

Pym was _missing_ when he died? This was new, and I didn't like it. I raised an eyebrow. "Come again?"

"Pym was always a little…unstable. Far as I know, he got worse after the war. Only guy I knew who hated Nazis more than I did."

After two years in a Nazi prison camp, that was saying something. Still, Stark seemed a little vague about a guy he'd worked in such close quarters with for so long. "Far as you know?" I asked skeptically.

Stark bristled a little. "Unlike everyone, I got on better with Richards than Pym. We were never close."

He didn't have any particular reason to lie, so far as I could tell, so fair enough. "When did you last see him?"

"Richards or Pym?"

"Both."

Stark frowned slightly. "Pym was out at Berkeley. Last I saw him was probably at Richards' funeral, about a year ago. Banner was there, too. I hadn't seen Richards since '46, when he left for APL."

"Where's that?"

"Near Baltimore," Stark said. He fell silent for a moment. "I tried to see him, you know. Before the end. But by then he wouldn't see anyone, not even Sue."

"Sue?"

"His wife," Stark explained. "She told me he'd been out west for some experimental treatment. It didn't work." He rubbed his beard thoughtfully. "You know, I think Pym's wife is from Chicago. Janet. I didn't know her well. She'd know more about him."

I made a note to track down Janet Pym. It might be nothing, but then again, it might not. "Thanks. And I'm sorry about Pym and Richards."

Stark shrugged and leaned back in his chair. "The real question," he mused, "is what all this has to do with Bruce Banner." I didn't volunteer anything, but I could feel Stark's intelligent dark eyes boring into me. "You found him, didn't you?"

I nodded.

"He's in trouble, isn't he?" Stark asked. He picked up his glass and drained it.

I nodded again.

Stark sighed. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes were troubled. His voice was quiet and worried. "What kind of trouble?"

I took another drink of my own scotch, rolling it around a little on my tongue to taste the quality before replying. I decided to try to shock Stark, to see if he would drop something he might not necessarily want me to know about Banner. "The kind that ends with a dead girl," I said, "And a ride to the psych ward."

Stark's eyes went wide. _"What?"_ he snapped.

"You mentioned Pym was unstable," I observed. "Did Banner ever show any unstable tendencies?"

"_Banner?_" Stark exclaimed incredulously. "He's the sanest guy I know."

I believed him, but I raised my eyebrows questioningly anyway.

"Sure, he's got a temper, but Bruce would never hurt anyone," Stark hastily elaborated. He looked shaken, more shaken than I had expected. "I only saw it once or twice, and only when someone took dangerous shortcuts during experiments. I never even saw him drunk, except for after Nagasaki."

I set my glass down on the smoking stand and picked up my hat. "One last thing," I said. "Were you ever given any pills? For radiation, I mean."

Stark blinked, seemingly a little surprised by the _non sequitur_. "Sure. We all got them. Some kind of iodine compound, I think. Never bothered to take them."

This surprised me, especially with what he'd told me about Richards' death. "Why not?"

Stark laughed hollowly. He tapped the center of his chest. It clicked metallically. "Chances are, Agent Barton, that this thing will kill me first."

I thanked him for his assistance, but he wasn't listening anymore. His eyes were distant as he poured himself another scotch. I left him to drink his liquid courage before facing his guests again, and headed out into the rain.


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: Apologies for the brief delay with this chapter! I'm going to through a tw: mention of domestic violence (brief and non graphic) on this chapter. PM me if this is a concern for you and you need more info. :)_

* * *

><p><strong>That Radium Glow<strong>

Chapter 6

I had a lot to chew over as I drove back to the office. It was raining in earnest now, and fat round droplets splattered against the windshield between the hypnotic swish of the wipers. I worried my lower lip absently with my teeth. My thoughts trickled and dribbled like the rain, and made just about as much sense.

While the conversation with Stark had been enlightening, we were once again back to square one with Banner's dark-haired companion. With the state Banner was in, he might be our only useful witness. I hadn't really thought it was Reed Richards, but what would Samson have been doing at the Black Widow?

I hadn't been expecting Richards to be dead, though. Something about it didn't sit right with me, cancer or no cancer. Now Pym was dead, too. Hopefully Rogers would have the sense to wire the Las Vegas office for the details of his case. I had a feeling the Feds would be getting involved, given his war work. I held the wheel with one hand and reached up to scratch my chin thoughtfully. Two of Banner's colleagues dead in two years. I didn't like it.

It wasn't the fact that Pym had been unstable (at least according to Stark) that bothered me, but that he'd been missing before he turned up dead. I'd seen plenty guys who were a little…off working for old Uncle Sam. Hell, I was probably one of them. But if Pym was important enough to the atomic weapon effort to justify giving him those clearances in spite of whatever problems he had, the government wouldn't have just let him disappear. Someone had to have been looking for him, or had a real good reason as to why they stopped.

Either way, I was eager to speak with Elizabeth Ross, and Janet Pym, if we could track her down.

* * *

><p>I decided to drop by the morgue before I went up to find Rogers, to see if by some miracle there had been any progress with the girl's body. The branch medical examiner, Dr. Henry McCoy, was the best in the business, but he worked slower than molasses in January. Coulson put up with it because he had closed more unsolvable cold cases than the whole Organized Crime unit combined.<p>

A bored-looking orderly manned the desk in the morgue's outer office, a shabby little room in the basement where Feds, cops, and sometimes ordinary people waited to see bodies. It smelled like nerves and stale cigarette smoke. Nobody was waiting, so he was snapping gum absently and leafing through the pages of a comic book.

"Doc in?" I shot at him.

He glanced up to study my face. "Yeah," he said, waving me through.

Despite these assurances, I didn't see McCoy in his office. He was probably in the autopsy room, then. The scotch I'd drunk with Stark twisted a little in my stomach. I told it to settle down and rapped on the glass door with my knuckles. There was no reply. I nudged it open with the toe of my shoe.

"Hank?" I called. The smell of bleach and formaldehyde wafted out. "You in here?"

"One moment," a deep, cultured bass rumbled back. A moment later, McCoy stepped outside, dressed in a white lab coat and a smile under his heavy brow. He was a real beast of a man, not much taller than I, but definitely not less than twice as wide and a good hundred pounds heavier. His bulk was all muscle, though, a carefully maintained legacy of his old Big Ten pigskin days. A pair of delicate wireframe glasses perched incongruously on the end of his beefy nose.

McCoy offered me a clean, if somewhat hairy, hand and I shook it. For all his intimidating size, Hank was one of the gentlest people I had ever met. He was also one of the very few doctors I could bring myself to trust. "Clint Barton," he greeted me. His brown eyes twinkled merrily. "I heard you have a new partner."

Word got around fast, I guess, when you got stuck with a celebrity. "Yeah. He's everything you'd expect, and then some," I said, rolling my eyes. "Not bad as an agent, though."

Hank chuckled. "I see. I'll expect a full report at a later date, as I doubt you made the trek all the way down here to socialize while you are in the middle of a case. What can I do for you?"

"Got anything on that girl who came in during the night?" I asked.

McCoy frowned slightly, his broad features wrinkling under his beard. "The massive head trauma? I'm afraid not yet, Clint. There's something of a queue. But I'll get to her as soon as I can."

There was a sympathetic tone in his voice. Hank always hated it when the young ones came in, especially the women. I pushed the grim thought from my mind and fished around in my pockets for the pills Rogers and I had collected from Banner's office. The damned things had been nagging me; despite the fact Stark and Banner said they were harmless. McCoy adjusted his glasses on his nose and squinted at the little green pills cradled in my palm with interest.

"What are these?" he asked, prodding one with a thick finger. He produced a vial from the pocket of his lab coat and scooped a few of the pills inside.

"They're supposed to be for radiation," I explained, pocketing the remainder. "Suspect in the girl's case had them on him. Some kind of iodine compound."

Hank glanced at me over his glasses. He was built more like a linebacker than a professor, so the expression always seemed ridiculous on him. "And you'd like me to take a look?"

"Yeah, if you get a chance," I replied. "High profile case; got to make sure we cover all the bases."

"Of course," McCoy agreed. "I'll keep you informed."

I smiled and shook his hand again. At least he didn't think it was a wasted exercise. "Thanks, Hank. I appreciate it."

* * *

><p>Rogers was sitting at my desk when I entered the office, with my telephone cradled between his cheek and shoulder. He waved at me and went back to his conversation. I dropped my hat and overcoat on the desk beside him and glanced over at Coulson's office. Unusually, the blinds were all drawn. I raised an eyebrow at Maria Hill.<p>

"Coulson's got Elizabeth Ross in there right now," she explained. "He wanted you and Rogers to interview her together. Where have you been?"

Despite the Air Corps' best efforts, Banner's fiancée had gotten our messages after all. Good. I ignored Maria's jibe at my work habits and leaned casually on the edge of her desk. "I need you to find someone for me," I said, changing the subject. Maria raised an eyebrow, but she took out a notepad and paper instead of shoving me off. "Dame by the name of Janet Pym; recent widow of Hank Pym. He was in government employ, now in Berkeley. Sounds like she's from the Chicago area, but I don't have a maiden name for you."

Her eyes lit up at the challenge. "All right," she said, setting down her pen. She rapped her knuckles on Coulson's door as she passed to leave for the archives. "I'll get on it."

"Thanks, Miss Hill," I said with mock formality, and she rolled her eyes at me as she disappeared out the door. I grinned after her.

The telephone receiver clicked and I glanced over at Rogers. "That was the Vegas branch," Rogers explained, making a few notes on my unused notepad. "They're wiring Pym's file as soon as they can. Right now they don't think foul play, but the body's in bad shape, and apparently jurisdiction is one heck of a mess. They found him on the Arizona side of the lake, but he was reported missing in Nevada. Local cops are too busy bickering to be of much use."

"Surprise, surprise," I said sourly. I frowned a little. Stark had said Pym was in California, not Nevada. "The hell was he doing in Nevada?"

Coulson's office door opened before Rogers could do more than shrug in reply. His face was studiously neutral as he waved us inside. Rogers stood and tugged his jacket back into place, while I straightened my tie. We were on.

Elizabeth Ross sat in one of Coulson's chairs, clutching a hot cup of coffee with both hands. Her features were soft and painterly, with minimal make-up. Her wide blue eyes exactly matched the shade of her silk suit, and her dark hair set off her porcelain skin to perfection. Banner was a lucky fellow, I thought. Eyes like Liz Taylor and brains to boot. But I could also see dark circles under her eyes beneath a layer of powder, and creases in her blue skirt and around the middle of her jacket. A few strands of dark hair had fallen down around her face.

"Dr. Ross, these are Special Agents Clinton Barton and Steven Rogers," Coulson said, indicating us each in turn. "They're handling your fiancé's case. I'll leave them to explain the situation." Dr. Ross nodded an acknowledgement, and Coulson slipped from the room. He pulled the door firmly shut behind him.

Dr. Elizabeth Ross smoothed the edge of her wrinkled skirt self-consciously. A modest Tiffany diamond sparkled on the third finger of her left hand. "You'll have to excuse my appearance, Agent Barton. I came here straight from Midway," she said in an apologetic tone. She had a quiet, almost musical voice. She took a sip of coffee. The gesture was casual, but I could see the strain around her eyes. "I understand Bruce- my fiancé, is missing?"

Rogers and I looked at each other. So Coulson hadn't told her about Banner, no doubt so we could see her reaction when she was. It was smart, but cold enough to rankle me a little. "He was," I said aloud.

It took a moment for my words to filter through her worry. "Wait, you _found_ him?" she cried, her face crumpling with relief.

Rogers glanced at me and I took a deep breath. Breaking it to her bit by bit was kinder, I thought. Everyone always thought they wanted the bad news all at once, until they got the bad news. "The simple answer is yes, Dr. Ross."

Little pinches of worry reappeared in her pale skin. Her hand shook a little and she set the coffee down to one side before it could slop over the rim of the mug. "_Simpl_e answer?" she asked. "Is he…?"

"He's not hurt," I added hastily, kicking myself for _that_ omission, and she slumped a little with renewed relief. "He's okay. Physically, at least."

Dr. Ross looked up at me questioningly. "Physically?"

I swallowed. She wasn't going to like this, but there wasn't much I could do about it. "There's no easy way to say this, Dr. Ross," I told her. "Dr. Banner is, um, in the closed ward at Cook County Hospital."

Her eyes narrowed slightly with confusion. "The closed ward?" I raised my eyebrows significantly and the blood drained from her face. She put a hand to her mouth. "Oh, Bruce. But why would he be there? Can I see him? What happened?"

"That's what we're trying to figure out, Dr. Ross," Rogers said quietly.

Her eyes flicked to him before settling back on me. I could see wheels of thought turning behind them despite her obvious shock. "Why is he being held?" she asked, the suggestion of a protective edge coming into her voice. "Is he accused of something?"

"Suspected," I said. "Not quite accused. Yet."

Dr. Ross took a deep breath. Her clenched fingers opened and closed a few times before she spoke. "Of what crime?" she asked evenly.

I'd seen a lot of dames during my handful of years with the FBI. Frantic dames, weepy dames, stony dames. Dames who didn't give a care. Dames who cared too much. Elizabeth Ross didn't seem to easily fit into any of these categories. She was made of stern stuff, just like her old man. I respected that. So I didn't try to gloss it over, though I could feel Rogers' eyes boring warningly into my back. "Murder," I said casually.

Her face didn't crumple, though her china blue eyes went impossibly wide. Dr. Ross pressed the handkerchief to her mouth. Her throat worked a few times, though no words came out at first. "Murder?" she asked hoarsely.

I nodded. "Of a young woman."

She leaned back in her chair, her eyes closing for a moment. When she opened them again, I could see the beginnings of tears sparkling between her long black eyelashes. She seemed determined not to let them fall. "There must be some mistake," she said forcefully, her voice gathering strength. "Bruce would never hurt anyone."

"Dr. Ross," I said gently, "it's possible he wasn't…himself at the time."

Her brow furrowed slightly in confusion. "What?" she breathed.

"Does your fiancé have any history of psychiatric problems?" Rogers cut in.

It didn't take long for Elizabeth Ross to read between the lines. The blood drained from her face, but she took another deep breath and pulled herself together quickly. "No. None that I know of."

"Does he drink?"

"No, not really. Socially. But we don't go out much."

So far her story was consistent with Banner's. "I understand he has a temper?" I asked, studying her reaction carefully. Rogers shot me a questioning look, but I ignored him.

She hesitated. Bingo. "I suppose he does," she said quietly. "Like most people."

"What did you two fight about?" I asked casually. She flinched as if she had been struck, and I saw a flash of the General in her eyes. I put up my hands in a placating manner. "Look, Dr. Ross, I have to ask."

Her anger faded. She studied her hands in her lap. "Yes, I suppose you do," she said with another sigh. "Our date. Our wedding date, I mean. We've been trying to set one for months."

"What was the problem?" Rogers asked. He shifted to fold his arms across his chest.

"My father," Dr. Ross sighed. She let out a humorless little chuckle. "He's never liked Bruce and he thinks that by making himself impossible he can keep us from marrying. Bruce thought if we humored him, it would make things easier for me down the road. That's not how Dad thinks. Give him an inch and he'll take a mile. I'd had enough, and told him as much."

"Did Banner lose his temper?" I asked.

"No," Dr. Ross admitted. "I did, and I regret it. I haven't seen Bruce truly…_angry _since right after the accident, or when people take stupid risks."

Rogers and I looked at each other. He was as mystified as I was. Apparently there were some serious omissions from Banner's file. Compartmentalization at its best. "What accident?" I asked.

"I-I'm not sure how much I'm allowed to say," Dr. Ross said hesitantly. "A group Bruce was supervising took a shortcut during an experiment. Everything was such a rush during the war; Bruce was senior and he deemed the risk acceptable. There was an accident. Two men died, but somehow Bruce didn't." Her voice hitched and she dabbed her eyes again. "It didn't make any sense. The radiation he was exposed to…he _should_ have died. But he didn't. I don't think he's ever forgiven himself for it."

I looked at my shoes for a moment, a prickle of guilt twisting in my stomach. It was a hard thing to be in charge, to make the decisions that could cost men their lives and to live with the fallout when they did. Not everyone could.

"Is that why he left the program?" Rogers asked quietly.

A pensive expression came onto Dr. Ross' pretty features. "Partially. It changed him. So did Hiroshima and Nagasaki." She sighed heavily. "You asked if Bruce drank. He did then. But it was never an issue later."

I believed her. "So he regrets working on the bomb?" I asked.

"Bruce always looked at it as doing his part in the war, just like everyone else," she explained. "But it…it hit him hard. I think he regrets what his work was used for. That was why he came to Chicago. He didn't want to cause any more destruction."

She dabbed her eyes again. "This was supposed to be our fresh start," she said quietly. There was a plaintive note in her musical voice. "And I don't believe Bruce would ever harm anyone."

"We're doing our best to prove that," I said impulsively, earning a glare from Rogers.

"Dr. Ross, he was found at the scene," he cut in, before I could say anything. "Covered in blood."

Elizabeth Ross shuddered. "How was she killed?"

I could see Rogers shake his head out of the corner of his eye, but I sensed there was something Dr. Ross was hiding. I wanted to know what it was. "Far as we know? Her head was smashed into the pavement. Repeatedly."

I was expecting her to go rigid with shock, and even for the blood to drain rapidly from her face, but I was not expecting the flash of recognition across her features. The flicker of sick shock and real fear. "Bruce might not have psychiatric problems," she said slowly. She looked up to meet my eyes. "But his father did. He was a violent, horrible man."

My breath caught in my throat, and the little hairs on the back of my neck prickled. Rogers went very still behind me.

Dr. Ross licked her lips and took the plunge. "He murdered Bruce's mother outside of their home," she told us. The words were reluctant, as if she felt she was betraying some kind of confidence. "He beat her head against the sidewalk. Bruce was eight. He saw the whole thing."

I leaned back heavily in my chair. There was no way something like that could be a coincidence, was there? Dr. Ross looked sick. She pressed her rumpled handkerchief to her mouth again. I could see her shuddering, and for a moment, I wished I could take her in my arms and whisper into her hair that everything was going to be all right. Like I'd used to do for Bobbi. Back when someone looked to me for comfort and support.

But I couldn't. She wasn't Bobbi. She was Dr. Elizabeth Ross. She was engaged to Dr. Bruce Banner, currently a mental ward resident and murder suspect. I couldn't tell her it was going to be okay. There was a very good chance it was not.

"Dr. Ross," I said.

She blinked back to the present. "Yes?"

"One last thing," I stated. "Did your fiancé take any pills?"

"Yes," she answered, a little confused. "In case of accidental radiation exposure. He took them every day. He's always been conscientious about that sort of thing."

She pressed her hands to her eyes tiredly. Rogers and I glanced at each other. Neither of us was cruel enough to keep her any longer. The interview was over.

"I think we've got enough for now, Dr. Ross," Rogers said gently. "Thank you for your help."

"I'm staying at the Palmer House," she said listlessly. She looked sad and drained, and worry drew little lines around her eyes. But her shoulders were square and her back straight while she collected her coat and hat. She was the general's daughter, that was for sure. "You can reach me there."

"We'll be in touch," I said, taking her elbow and leading her to the door.

Coulson was hovering outside. He would escort Dr. Ross out of the building and make sure she found a cab back to her hotel. Rogers and I watched her go. I felt a little dirty about the whole thing, but there wasn't anything I could do about it. I leaned casually against the side of my desk and lit a cigarette.

"She doesn't believe he did it," I said. "Wish I could say the same."

"The evidence is stacking up," Rogers mused, once the outer door had safely closed behind them. He had dropped into my chair, looking pensive. "In his right mind or not, I think Bruce Banner murdered that girl. He was carrying a lot, Barton. Maybe it just took him this long to snap."

I knew plenty guys who carried heavy loads like Banner's and didn't snap. But I knew some guys who did, too. I wasn't sure which one I was. But none of that made Rogers wrong, and I knew it. "It's all circumstantial, though," I countered. It killed me that I was starting to agree with him. "'Cept him being found at the scene. We still don't have anything that'll really stick."

"Yet," Rogers said, and I knew he was thinking about Banner's mother's long-ago murder, and the uncanny similarity between that case and our own. "Any word on her identity?"

"Nothing; McCoy hasn't done the autopsy yet," I said. "It'll take some time, Rogers, she's in bad shape."

He snorted softly. I seconded his impatience, but there wasn't much we could do about it. I offered him a cigarette, but instead of glaring at me he just shook his head.

"Think all that radiation could have messed with Banner's head?" he mused.

I shrugged and exhaled a lungful of smoke. "More than seeing his mother murdered as a kid?"

"Point," Rogers grunted. "That and two dead men on his conscience, plus his atomic bomb work..."

We fell into pained silence. A mortar whistled overhead. In my head. I looked at my shoes. The ghost of Barney's arms wrapped around my body. I shook them off and took a long, shuddering drag on my cigarette that didn't fill that little hollow place in my heart. It never did. Whiskey didn't fill it, either.

I knew something about what guilt could do to a man. I glanced up. From his pained, distant expression, so did Rogers. I wondered whose ghosts he was seeing.

Not that I would ever ask. Some wounds shouldn't be reopened.

"What's the word on Samson?" I asked, to break the uneasy quiet. I stubbed my cigarette out. "Richards is a dead end. Literally."

Rogers' nose wrinkled a little at my flippancy, but he didn't tell me off. Instead, he seemed happy for a change of subject. "Samson checks out, sort of," he told me with a shrug.

"Sort of?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.

"I made a few calls and the practice seems to check out," Rogers added, passing me a sheet of paper. I recognized the guest list from Stark's party. "Get this, though." A single name had been underlined: _Dr. Leonard Samson._

I smacked my forehead. Small wonder his name had sounded familiar; I'd probably read it three dozen times. "He neglected to mention _that._"

Rogers' eyes narrowed. "Deliberately?"

I bit the inside of my lip, thinking. Samson probably had a perfectly innocent reason to be at Stark's party; Stark had given a small fortune to the hospital over the years. He might not have known Banner from Adam, at least until Banner fell into his care. And this certainly did not mean he was the man Natasha had seen at the Black Widow. But nonetheless, he was back at the top of my very short interest list.

"It's possible," I mused. "I'd wager he'd have at least recognized Banner. Doctors are usually pretty good in that way, and he's clearly sharp."

"Think we should call him on it?" Rogers said. He started to reach for his coat, but stopped when I shook my head.

"Not yet," I decided. "Might not be anything. But if it is, I don't want to spook him 'til we've got more. We get sideways with him and he can make it damn near impossible for us to access Banner. I don't like he didn't mention it, though."

"Me neither," Rogers agreed.

Unfortunately I had no idea what _more_ meant. I rubbed my chin thoughtfully. "Got anyone you trust back east?" I asked.

"Sure," Rogers said, frowning a little. "How come?"

"This Reed Richards guy was working in Baltimore when he died. 'Bout a year ago, according to Stark. I want someone to look into it."

Rogers raised an eyebrow. "Foul play?"

"Cancer," I replied. Rogers' eyebrow crept a little higher. I worried my thumbnail with my teeth in lieu of lighting another cigarette. "It just doesn't sit well with me," I elaborated with a shrug. "Two of four guys dead in two years?"

"Radiation's a nasty thing," Rogers observed. "But I agree, it's a heck of a coincidence." He checked his watch. "I'll call Sam in the morning. Get him on Richards first thing."

"It's probably nothing," I replied. "But thanks."

The office door opened. We both looked up; expecting to see Coulson, but it was just Maria Hill. She had a sheaf of folders stacked with military precision on one arm, and a sour expression on her sharp features. She walked up to me and thrust a piece of paper into my hand. I glanced down to read it. It was a street address in Evanston.

"What's this?" I asked Maria. Rogers took the paper out of my hand and studied it.

"Janet Pym," Maria said while she arranged the files neatly on her desk.

I hadn't been expecting her to come through so quickly. She really ought to make agent; she was better at my job than I was. The information on our case was suddenly flooding in. Policework was sure funny like that. "When it rains, it pours," I muttered under my breath.

She paused in her work to lift her eyebrows significantly at me. "Janet _van Dyne_ Pym. Vernon's only daughter."

"She's a van Dyne?" I exclaimed. The van Dynes were one of the oldest, richest families in Chicago. Vernon van Dyne sat on several charitable boards and councils, and though retired, he certainly had enough pull with the city government to make our lives difficult if we didn't tread carefully around his little girl.

"A who?" Rogers asked, bewildered.

"The van Dyne family," I explained. "Basically what passes for old money out here in the west, Rogers. Nice work, Hill!"

"Evidently she's been staying with her parents since her beloved husband went missing. Shame on us for intruding upon the family grief. You're meeting her at ten A.M. tomorrow," Maria told us, a little smugly. She straightened up and folded her arms across her chest. "You owe me, Barton. Do you know how many society pages I had to read? Society pages!"

I grinned at her. "Does that mean you'll finally let me buy you a drink, Miss Hill?"

She snorted and rolled her eyes. "In your dreams, Barton."


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N: Brief mention of an off-screen suicide in this chapter, in case that's a concern for anyone._

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><p><strong>That Radium Glow<strong>

Chapter 7

Bruised clouds, heavy with rain, loomed over the city. They stretched out over the lake to blur into the horizon, round and distended like the bellies of the dead fish that sometimes lined its shores. A brisk, damp wind whipped the water into whitecaps and nearly took my hat with it as I waited for Steve Rogers outside the Drake Hotel. I hunched with my back to the wind to light a cigarette and glanced up at the ominous sky. I wondered if the businessmen and the heiresses in their penthouses ever got claustrophobic that close to the clouds.

I had just finished my cigarette and I was contemplating lighting another when Rogers appeared, freshly combed, shaved, and pressed for the start of a new day. I was stuffed into my second-best suit myself, and hating every moment of it. It was almost as bad as my dress blues. My shirt and favorite purple tie were crisp enough to chafe, and I'd even bothered to shine my shoes. I spotted Rogers tugging his own collar uncomfortably out of the corner of my eye while we drove north. It was the price we paid to look like respectable Feds, I guess.

The glamor and grime of downtown seemed very far away while we trawled the quiet streets of Evanston for the van Dyne residence. Stately homes in pastels and gingerbread trim preened along too-clean pavement between manicured lawns and immaculate sidewalks. Automobiles with fresh whitewalls and real chrome gleamed sedately in their driveways, or purred past my tired Ford with a whiff of exhaust and a hint of disdain. There were people, too, out of sight. Housewives in pearls taking a roast from the oven; adoring children in spotless clothes playing ball or dolls; fathers exchanging Oxfords for slippers at the door.

The little hairs on the back of my neck prickled. I didn't like it. It was all too neat. How many of these perfect facades sheltered liquor-soaked men still broken from war or quietly desperate women hiding behind false smiles and home-canned tomatoes? The city might be dirty, but it had an honesty about its vices that I could respect.

"Hey, Barton," Rogers exclaimed, yanking me out of my thoughts. "This is it."

I hit the brakes and we skidded to a halt. The van Dynes' Queen Anne mansion sprawled languidly behind an expanse of green lawn, all pediments and gables and leaded glass. A wide skirt of porch with lacy white trim jutted into mulched, empty flowerbeds, flouncing saucily where a single round turret made up one corner of the house. A pair of stately trees flanked the house on either side, glowering down at our incursion like bare-branched matrons standing sentinel over a debutante at her first dance.

I hunched into my coat as I followed Rogers up the flagstone walkway to the front door. Just like the university or Stark's penthouse, I didn't belong here, either. Rogers rang the bell and a moment later, a stone-faced maid complete with black dress and white apron opened the heavy wooden door. We produced our badges and she let us inside without a word. She sniffed a little disapprovingly while she collected our hats and coats, as if in judgment for our intrusion upon the family grief.

"Mrs. Pym will receive you in the parlor," she told us a little haughtily as she led us through a richly paneled foyer and into a side room on the front of the house. _Parlor?_ I mouthed gleefully at Rogers behind her back. He shot me a warning look, and we both pulled our neutral lawman faces back on in time for the maid to turn around. "I will inform her that you have arrived."

She left the room and pulled the door shut behind her. Rogers eyed an uncomfortable-looking, horsehair covered chair festooned with dark wooden curlicues. He raised an eyebrow at me and opted to stand. I chuckled and wandered around a little, studying the parlor. Everything had that opulent, velvety patina of old money. My feet sunk pleasantly into a Persian rug, and ornate furniture was arranged carefully under the large bay windows. Little bits of china rested on shelves, and a set of musty-looking leather books dominated a bookcase to one side.

We must have waited at least half an hour before Mrs. Pym graced us with her presence. I was thinking about lighting a cigarette, and Rogers was shaking his head at me when the door opened and a petite woman stepped inside. She wasn't quite your typical WASP; I'd give her that.

Janet Pym was younger than I'd expected, with a small heart-shaped face and a pointed chin. Her black hair was cropped quite short, and a pair of hazel eyes swept over me and Rogers. She wore a black dress that wasn't exactly ill-fitting, and no jewelry or make-up beyond her wedding ring. She didn't look like she liked it.

"You must be Agent Barton and Agent Rogers?" Mrs. Pym asked, though she certainly already knew the answer. She dropped carelessly into an antique chair and produced a compact mirror and a lipstick. She flipped open the compact and carefully applied the lipstick. It was bright red. Rogers stared, and I hid a grin. Mrs. Pym glanced up coolly at us. "This is all Mother's doing," she said, gesturing at the black dress with a shrug. She smacked her lips experimentally and nodded to herself at the result, before setting down the lipstick and the compact. "Mourning, I mean," she added with a bitter chuckle. "I can do without everything but the lipstick. That's where I draw the line."

"We're sorry for your loss, Mrs. Pym," Rogers said formally. "And for the intrusion."

She chuckled again. "Janet, please," she told him. She glanced at me. "You don't happen to have a cigarette, do you? Mother doesn't approve of smoking, either."

I grinned. I was beginning to like Janet Pym. I dug in my pocket for cigarettes and a lighter. She took one and held it between her crimson lips while I lit it. I took one for myself and lit it gratefully. Rogers scowled.

Janet raised an eyebrow at him. "At ease, Captain." Rogers' cheeks went red and I guffawed with laughter. I was really beginning to like Janet Pym. She leaned back in her chair and gestured to a sofa across from it. Rogers and I each took a seat. "So are you two investigating Hank's death?" she asked, exhaling a lungful of smoke. The words were casual, but there were traces of grief in her face.

"Not exactly," I said, tapping the ash off my cigarette into a nearby tray.

"How long were you and Dr. Pym married?" Rogers asked.

Janet Pym shrugged. "About four years. We eloped after the war ended and Hank got a job at the University of California. Mother and Daddy were furious."

She looked real pleased about that, I noted. "How did you meet?" I asked.

Janet eyed us both. "The project," she said carefully. She lifted her eyebrows. "I think you know what I mean." Rogers and I both nodded, and she continued. "I was a computer."

"A what?" I interrupted.

Janet laughed. "A computer. A lot of calculations were needed to build the bomb; too many for the scientists to do themselves. So they gave them to us. That's how I met Hank."

I tapped my thumbnail against my front teeth. "You don't seem particularly bereaved for a new widow, Mrs. Pym," I said, just to see how she would react.

"Barton!" Rogers interjected angrily. I ignored him.

She didn't burst into tears. She didn't scream or yell at me, or even deny my accusation. Janet calmly stubbed the butt of her cigarette out in the ashtray. She sighed, and I had the sudden impression she was gathering her strength. She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue and said: "I left Hank eight months ago."

I shot Rogers a triumphant glance. His gaping mouth snapped shut and he narrowed his eyes warningly at me, but he didn't get mad. I got results. I repressed a grin. Rogers quickly pulled himself together and asked: "May I ask why?"

"If you tell me what you're investigating," Janet said, a little coyly.

"Bruce Banner," I said, before Rogers could stop me. She raised an eyebrow at me. "He went missing a few days ago, under some…suspicious circumstances."

"I see," she said neutrally, but I could tell she was intrigued. She glanced down to study her manicured fingernails. "Hank was too invested in his work. It was taking a toll on our marriage, and I'd had enough. I don't like coming in second all the time."

There was truth in her words, but not the whole truth. Her voice and her wedding ring told me that. "We were told he was unstable," I said.

Janet's hazel eyes flashed with sudden anger. "Who have you been talking to?" she demanded. She thought a moment and laughed bitterly. "Tony Stark. Who else? Well, it takes one to know one."

Rogers and I looked at each other. I wasn't sure what we'd been expecting, but it wasn't that. "Sorry, Mrs.- Janet, could you elaborate?" Rogers asked, a little apologetically.

She sighed and glanced questioningly at me. I guessed what she was after and held out my pack of cigarettes. She selected one and took my lighter to it. "Hank had his…ups and downs," she said slowly, around a puff of smoke. She looked up significantly at both of us. "_Not_ like everyone else. Sometimes genius comes with a terrible price, and that was his."

"Like van Gogh," Rogers said, and Janet nodded. "A famous artist," he added, for my benefit. It didn't really help. I rolled my eyes. Rogers shook his head a little at my ignorance.

"During the war," Janet continued, and we shut up. "Hank was…angry. All the time. Most people don't know this, but he was adopted. His mother remarried when he was a kid and his stepfather adopted him." She paused, both for dramatic effect and to tap ash off the end of her cigarette. "She was Polish."

My heart sank. I heard Rogers wince a little. He knew better than I the particular horrors the Nazis had wreaked in Poland. Stark's comment about Pym hating Nazis started to make a little more sense.

"Half his family never made it out," Janet continued. "There was no news, not at first. Then there was. That was the reason he joined the project. He wanted revenge. And Reed Richards just egged him on, with all his plans for a super bomb..." She trailed off, her eyes becoming distant. "

"What about after the war?" Rogers asked. Pym sure wouldn't be the first guy I knew about who had trouble adjusting back to civilian life.

Janet tapped her cigarette absently. "The transfer to Berkeley did help," she said quietly. "So did Nuremburg. He still obsessed about a bigger bomb, but he had other work to do and at least he was away from Richards. It was okay for a while. Good even."

She trailed off again. I studied her. Her face was sad; her voice almost wistful. "Until about eight months ago?" I guessed.

Right in one. Janet nodded. She took a final drag on her cigarette and stubbed it out. "Hank's symptoms suddenly got worse. Just out of the blue. He'd been fine, well, not _fine_, but functional for years. He'd never been violent before. I…I just got scared."

I went very still. I could feel my heart pound a little harder against my ribs. Rogers leaned forward a little, his face very serious. "Janet," he said quietly, "was he violent towards you?"

She bit her lip, hesitating. There was a wariness about her now that even her considerable confidence couldn't mask. "Not intentionally," she told us. Rogers' face darkened and she quickly added: "He didn't intend me any harm, honest, Agent Rogers. And he was so, so apologetic when he came back to himself. I'd never seen Hank so distressed. I don't- _didn't_, "she corrected herself with a bitter little smile, "think he'd ever forgive himself." Her fingers found her wedding ring and she twisted it anxiously. I didn't get the impression her distress was over lying to the FBI, but for her husband. "I know he didn't mean it, but damned if I wasn't afraid."

"Afraid enough to leave?" I asked.

She took a deep breath. "We both decided it would be safer if I left. Hank knew he needed treatment and he wasn't going to be able to get it in Berkeley." She glanced up at us both. "That kind of thing would ruin his career. So we put out the word he was an alcoholic, and that I'd left him over it. He would go take the cure at a private sanatorium in Reno. Just not for drinking."

She went quiet for a moment, twisting her wedding ring around her finger over and over. "We'd always intended to reconcile in the end," Janet added, at once bitter and wistful. "But Hank went missing two months after I left. Escaped the sanatorium and disappeared. I knew then that it was never going to happen. I could…feel it. You're right, Agent Barton. I'm not sad. I'm just relieved they…found him."

Janet looked at her shoes. She blinked several times, but she was clearly too proud to let us see tears in her eyes. Rogers and I sat in silence until she took another deep breath and looked up again. She straightened in her seat. "Was there anything else you needed to know?"

"So, just to confirm, these new symptoms, the violence," Rogers asked, "Started suddenly? And you're sure it had never happened before?"

"Completely," Janet confirmed. "Hank had his ups and his downs, but he was never violent. Until then."

Rogers and I looked at each other. A sudden breakdown followed by a mysterious disappearance. The whole story rang familiar. Too familiar. Neither of us liked it.

I rubbed my chin thoughtfully. "How did you find this, uh, facility?"

Janet bit her lip. Her white teeth gleamed against the red lipstick. "It was recommended to us by the director of Hank's department. He knew about his…issues. Discreet and secure; I think the staff was vetted by the government. Hank wasn't their first client with access to sensitive information."

"You said you used Dr. Pym's drinking as an excuse to send him away," Rogers asked. "Did he actually drink?"

Janet hesitated again. "During his down periods," she confirmed. "His friends knew. So did a few of his colleagues."

It wouldn't hurt to ask, while we were here. "Did your husband take any pills, Janet?" I asked.

"You'll have to be more specific."

"For radiation."

"Religiously, after what happened to Banner and Richards," she replied with a shrug. "Even when he wasn't doing heavy experimental work."

We certainly had a lot to think about now. I jerked my head at Rogers and we stood to leave. Janet reached over to ring for the maid to bring us our hats and coats.

"Thanks for your time, Mrs. Pym," I said formally. She shook our hands in turn. "And we are sorry about your husband."'

"Just keep me informed, okay?" she replied. "If you get any news."

"Sure," I said. I tossed her what was left of my packet of cigarettes and winked. "For the road. Don't let your mother see."

Janet Pym gave me a half smile and a watery chuckle. She followed us onto the porch as we left; sitting sadly on a wooden chair and studying the pack for selection. She didn't wave as I slammed the car door shut and pulled out into the street.

I thought Rogers would tell me off when I got into the car, but he didn't. He fidgeted in his seat as I drove back towards downtown, drumming his fingers on the dash or peering out the window into the gloomy gray light. I pointed out one or two landmarks as we drove, but Rogers didn't seem to be interested in small talk. I enjoyed the feeling of the muscles in my shoulders slowly unknotting as we left the shining suburbs behind.

"What do you think the odds are?" Rogers mused aloud while we skimmed along the edge of the lake. "Two guys from the same team, with solid jobs and, by all accounts, healthy relationships, having violent mental breakdowns within a year of each other? After the war's been over for years?"

I took one hand off the wheel to tap my thumbnail against my front teeth, since Janet Pym had the last of my cigarettes. "Pretty long, I'd say. Pym had history, though. Sort of."

"Still strikes me as odd," Rogers countered. He rubbed his chin and sighed with frustration. "A lot of things are odd about this case. There are too many coincidences for my liking."

"Maybe it's not all coincidence," I said aloud, just to say something.

Rogers eyed me. "Like what, then?"

"I don't know." I shook my head and he looked back at the road. I didn't have any concrete ideas, just a swarm of nebulous thoughts and pieces of fact that refused to fall into any kind of place. We were close, I could sense it with that sixth sense I'd developed in the jungles of Guadalcanal and Saipan, the one that guided my rifle even when Barney's eyes failed. My heart twisted at the memory of my brother and I quickly pushed those thoughts from my mind. Maybe I could sneak a quick drink back at the office to settle my nerves.

"You think your guy out east has anything yet?" I asked.

"Sam? He just might," Rogers told me. "I told him to wire right away if he found anything, and he works fast."

We stopped for coffee and a quick bite at a little diner I liked before we hit downtown. I rode Rogers a little for ordering apple pie for dessert, but he took it in stride and even ribbed me a little about my purple tie. I didn't care. It had been a present from Bobbi, years ago, and it always brought me luck.

Miraculously, there was a telegram for Agt. Steven Rogers waiting on my desk when we returned to the office. He ripped open the envelope and scanned the paper inside. I took advantage of this distraction to take a quick nip from the flask in my breast pocket. Rogers looked confused as he read.

"Sam found Richards' death certificate," he said aloud. "Cause of death is listed as overdose of morphine."

"What?" I exclaimed.

Rogers' eyebrows knitted together. "They ruled it accidental, but the circumstances suggested there was some doubt about that."

"Foul play?"

He glanced up at me. "Suicide."

"According to Stark, he was dying of cancer," I observed. A chill went down my spine. "Wouldn't see anyone in his last months. Maybe he got tired of waiting."

"That's not all," Rogers added grimly, and I looked up. "Barton, he died in Reno. They shipped his body back for the funeral."

"Stark also mentioned he'd been out west for treatment," I said. I worried the inside of my lower lip with my teeth. "Reno again, though," I mused, thinking of the card Samson had given Rogers, the one that bore a Reno address. "And who do we know from Reno?"

Rogers wrinkled his nose. He looked more like a puzzled schoolboy than a federal agent perched on the edge of my desk with his tie loosened. "Samson checked out, though," he insisted. "I even had the records office pull his medical license." He dug around in our case file and held out a mimeograph of an official-looking form emblazoned with _State of Nevada _and a photograph of Samson. His green eyes stared out mockingly at me.

I raised an eyebrow. "Maybe he did, but something doesn't smell right," I said. Still, there were some brains behind Rogers' all-American good looks. "Christ, you're thorough. Can't believe the Army'd let you go, Cap. How'd you end up at the bureau?" I asked, a little playfully.

Rogers shrugged. "Too famous for the Secret Service."

I laughed aloud at that and Rogers grinned. "Fair enough," I told him, retrieving my spare pack of smokes from my bottom desk drawer and collecting my hat and coat. "Let's go talk to Samson. I want to hear him account for the night of Stark's party. Maybe have another go at Banner if he's fit."

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><p><em>Please review! I'm always curious to see what readers think! :)<br>_


	8. Chapter 8

_A/N: Hey readers, thanks for your patience with this chapter. I'm in the final stages of my degree right now and dedicated writing time is getting pretty scarce. Rather than make you guys wait months for updates, I'm going to start posting new chapters every 2-3 weeks instead of weekly. I'll still try to reply to reviews as best I can! Thanks for understanding, and enjoy the ride! :)  
><em>

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><p><strong>That Radium Glow<strong>

Chapter 8

It was clear from the moment we stepped into the closed ward back at Cook County that something was wrong. Burly orderlies in tired white suits and soft-soled shoes rushed towards a door. A nurse brushed past us with a battery of hypodermics that made my skin crawl. Someone called loudly for Dr. Samson.

Over all the activity I could hear screaming. It was a man's voice, howling like a demented animal in words that were not words but primal, incoherent sounds of rage and pain and fear. The little hairs on the back of my neck prickled. To my surprise, Elizabeth Ross stood to one side, huddled against a wall, and clutching Tony Stark's arm hard enough to bleach her knuckles white. My head whipped back towards the door the orderlies had rushed inside.

It was Banner's room. He was the one howling.

Rogers and I looked at each other. I swallowed and approached the door. The small observation slot was open, and I peered inside.

I recognized Banner by his curly hair, drenched with sweat and flying wildly around his face as he struggled against the dingy canvas pinioning his arms. He had one arm pulled half-free, the buckle twisted away from tearing leather. His face was unrecognizable, teeth bared into a mask of rage as he bellowed at the group of orderlies trying to restrain him. He slammed one of them with his shoulder hard enough to make me see sympathetic stars. I saw Samson, his tie gone and his hair tousled, backed into a corner to keep out of the orderlies' way. His mouth moved, no doubt in words to try to soothe Banner, but I couldn't hear him over Banner's howls and the grunts and curses of the orderlies as they rushed him _en masse_ like linemen at Soldier Field.

I'd seen enough. I closed the slit and backed away from the door, feeling sick. Rogers' mouth had drawn into a thin, grim line. I rubbed my hands on my trousers reflexively, wishing I could have a cigarette. I could feel Tony Stark's curious eyes boring into me but I couldn't look at him, not yet.

For the first time since I'd taken this case, I felt a prickle of doubt. I blinked and saw the terrifying mask of the man who was and at once was not Bruce Banner. Maybe Rogers was right. Maybe Banner had murdered that girl in a rage like this. Maybe he had smashed her head over and over into that concrete until her limbs stopped twitching and her chest shuddered to a halt. Maybe he really had done it without even being aware he'd done it.

I hoped to God I was wrong.

The screaming stopped so suddenly it almost hurt my ears; a final howl trailing off into an animal whimper and deafening silence. I glanced over at the blanched face of Elizabeth Ross. Her eyes were red-rimmed and I could see her nails digging mercilessly into Stark's arm. There was a sick little twist about Stark's lips, almost hidden by his beard, and a greenish tinge to his skin. Rogers was stiff and silent at my elbow.

The hinges of Banner's door squealed loudly and we all jumped. Samson ducked through the doorway, his long limbs following him with difficulty. He surveyed me and Rogers with obvious distaste while he mopped his forehead with an immaculate green handkerchief. The orderlies followed and dispersed back into the ward. Before Rogers or I could say anything, Samson stepped forward and took Dr. Ross' elbow to draw her aside. She released Stark's arm reluctantly. He tried to follow them, but he was rebuffed by an icy look from Samson. He scowled.

Rogers prodded me and I approached Stark. He looked grim and badly shaken. Stark withdrew a silver flask from an inner pocket and unscrewed the cap. The smell of spirits wafted out. He took a long pull and offered it to me. I could practically hear Rogers rolling his eyes, but I sure wasn't about to refuse. It was the best scotch I'd ever tasted, smooth like glass or silky smoke gone liquid.

"I had no idea," Stark said shortly. His voice was quiet and urgent, with none of his trademark flippancy. Even Stark couldn't bring himself to crack wise here. "I had no idea it was this bad. I've never seen Banner like this. I didn't know he was capable of this. This isn't…him."

I shrugged, only half listening. I strained my ears, trying to pick up fragments of Samson's conversation with Elizabeth Ross. She was dressed in demure dove gray today, with a little black hat swathed with a bit of netting to try to mask her red eyes. Words like "treatment" and "schizophrenia" peppered the conversation. I saw her white throat bob desperately when he said that particularly harsh, fearful word, but she refused to cry.

Stark noticed where I was looking and glanced back at Dr. Ross. "She wanted to see Bruce," he explained, with a helpless little shrug. "Tried to talk her out of it, but she wouldn't have it. Stubborn as her old man," he continued. "The doc here thinks it would be better to move Bruce to another facility. Somewhere out west. Unless he's charged, of course."

"And determined fit to stand trial," I added, giving up on my eavesdropping efforts. "Insanity plea's a hard sell. Hope he's got a good lawyer."

"The best," Stark shrugged. He took another drink from his flask and offered it to me. I accepted. "I've got Matt Murdock on retainer. God knows I've given him enough business over the years; he owes me."

I didn't say anything to that, though I silently approved. Matt Murdock was one hell of a high-powered New York lawyer with one hell of a batting average. If anyone could make sure Banner got a fair shake, it was him. "We found Janet Pym," I said instead. Stark looked back at me questioningly, but I wasn't about to give him the details on what she'd told us. "She didn't like Richards much, did she?"

"Most people didn't," Stark replied. He tucked his flask back inside his suit jacket. "Reed didn't see a lot of use in social niceties. Or anything but physics, really. He was always….pushing the envelope there, you could say." He looked at his Italian shoes. "He sometimes forgot there was a, uh, cost to what we were doing. We all did. Pym was so angry. So was I." Unconsciously, his fingers drifted up and pressed around the same old spot in the center of his chest. He glanced at the door to Banner's cell, pensive and sad. "Banner reminded us of that. He kept us…human."

I wondered if he saw the irony as I did, that the man who reminded them of their humanity was stripped of his own. He probably did. Stark was smart. A genius, even.

The scotch was making me philosophical. I banished the thoughts with a shake of my head. I was a cop, a Fed, a leatherneck, not a thinker. Certainly no great intellect. "So to your knowledge, Banner's never had any kind of episode like the one you just saw?" I asked, remembering my duty.

Stark shook his head. "Never," he replied. "Hardly even raises his voice."

I believed him. His shock, his fear was all so genuine his words rang true. I believed all of them, Elizabeth Ross, Janet Pym. Whatever was happening to Bruce Banner was wildly out of character; that much was certain. It was the only thing that was certain.

Stark's eyes shifted to something over my shoulder, and I turned slightly. Elizabeth Ross had finished her conversation with Dr. Samson. She acknowledged me with a slight nod. "Is there any news, Agent Barton?" she asked, a little desperately. Her musical voice was strained, and I could see tiny lines of effort around her eyes.

"I can't really say, Dr. Ross," I said sincerely, wishing I had words to reassure her. Even false words. "But we're still working."

Dr. Ross swallowed. "Have-have they identified that poor girl yet?"

"Not yet," I replied. Everyone knew why she hadn't been identified. Nobody needed to say it.

Dr. Ross' chin trembled a little. There was a new little flicker of doubt in her eyes that had not been there in Coulson's office, and suddenly I hated myself for causing it. Stark touched her arm. She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. I wonder how long it would take, after she left, for her to crumble into tears. If Stark was a trusted enough friend for her to let her guard down around him, or if she would do her crying in private.

Stark glanced at Samson, who shook his head mutely. "C'mon, Betty," Stark said, looking back at her. He gently placed a hand on the small of her back. Rogers raised an eyebrow at this familiarity, but I didn't get the impression there was anything improper going on. Apparently she knew Stark better than I'd thought. "There's nothing else we can do for Bruce here right now. Let's go."

She nodded again to Rogers and me while Stark led her towards the closed ward door. I could see Samson attempting to slip after them, but Rogers deftly stepped up to block his path. I quickly followed suit. Samson's eyes narrowed a little with irritation.

"One moment, Doctor," Rogers said firmly. There was a hint of an edge under his politeness that made it clear it wasn't a request. "We'd like a quick word."

Samson dipped into a pocket and retrieved a dark green houndstooth tie. He nonchalantly began to knot it around his neck, raising an eyebrow at Rogers while he did so. "Do keep it short, please. I have many other patients."

The question now was whether Rogers and I wanted to play hardball with Samson, or if we wanted to continue the kid glove treatment. The unmasked note of disdain in his cold English drawl when he addressed Rogers made the decision for me. It was a risk, as he controlled our access to Banner, but hopefully it would pay off. I waited for the door to shut behind Stark and Elizabeth Ross before speaking.

"You haven't been entirely honest with us, Dr. Samson," I started.

His pale eyes flicked appraisingly between Rogers and myself. "Have I not?"

"Nope," I said.

"I stand behind my previous statement," he said. "I have not yet formally diagnosed Dr. Banner. I have my suspicions, which I have shared with his fiancée."

"So I heard," I said. "Schizophrenia's pretty serious, isn't it?"

He smiled with no warmth, a predatory expression that revealed all his teeth. "That information is confidential, Agent Barton."

"Yet you revealed it in a public hallway within the hearing of a Federal agent," Rogers cut in. He'd caught on to what I was doing; he was certainly a quick study. "May I remind you, Dr. Samson, that this is a murder investigation?"

Point for Captain Rogers. Not quite a touchdown, but maybe a field goal. Samson's smile faded very slightly. "Dr. Banner is one of the most severe cases I've seen in my career. Take that as you will."

"We were under the impression you had never seen Bruce Banner until he was brought to you by the Chicago police," I continued. "But that's not quite right, is it?"

Samson didn't say anything. His sharp green eyes glittered, a little warily.

"Lying by omission is still lying, Dr. Samson," Rogers said. "You never _said_ you hadn't seen Banner before."

"We know you were at Stark's party," I added, before Samson could protest. "What were you doing there?"

Samson licked his lips. "The customary things one does at a party," he retorted, a hint of temper oozing into his cool voice. "Making inane small talk while imbibing someone else's liquor."

"Bruce Banner was also at that party," I said, watching him carefully. Much to my irritation, his face did not change. I made a mental note to never play poker with Dr. Leonard Samson. "Was he one of the ones you small-talked?"

Samson shrugged elegantly. The gesture was a little more forced than it should have been, hinting at tension that didn't show on his face. "There were dozens of people at that party, Agent Barton. It is entirely possibly I encountered Dr. Banner, but I do not recall him specifically at this moment."

It was an overly clever answer for a simple question; plenty of room to wiggle himself off a hook either way in a courtroom, if it came to that. I saw Rogers' eyes narrow a little out of the corner of my eye.

"How do you know Tony Stark?" he asked.

Samson looked between us again, his green eyes glittering calculatingly. "I don't, not personally," he replied. "Mr. Stark has donated heavily to the hospital. It was hardly unusual for a few of us to be in attendance, don't you think, Agent Rogers?"

Rogers ignored the jibe. "What about Henry Pym?"

There was a flash of recognition in Samson's eyes that made my heart skip a beat. "Henry Pym…Hank Pym?" he mused. I didn't know why, but I had the sudden impression Samson was toying with us. "The name is familiar. Dr. Banner mentioned him during one of his episodes. I believe they were colleagues?"

My heart sank and I heard Rogers let out a quiet huff of disappointment. "You ever been to the Black Widow?" I cut in.

Samson raised an eyebrow at me. "The what?"

"The Black Widow," I said. "It's a nightclub."

Samson laughed. "A nightclub? I should think not. When would I have the time?"

"That's funny," Rogers said casually, but his eyes were hard. "Because we have a witness who says otherwise. She saw you at the Black Widow on Sunday night. With Bruce Banner."

"Really," Samson drawled skeptically. "A witness _named_ me as having been at this…Black Widow bar?"

He had us there, caught in Rogers' not-quite bluff. I swore silently, and I could see Rogers flinch. He folded his arms awkwardly across his chest.

"So you _actually_ have a witness who attests to seeing a man matching my description at this nightclub, with Bruce Banner," Samson continued disdainfully, with another predatory smile. "I see."

"Where were you Sunday night?" I demanded, trying to scrape some shreds of our collective dignity back together and regain control over the conversation.

"Tony Stark's gala, of course," Samson retorted and I ground my teeth. He glanced at his watch and sighed with mock irritation. "I took a cab home afterwards. It was quite late, after all."

It was another calculatedly vague reply. I eyed Samson. There were a hundred things he could be hiding: a mistress, an addiction. Maybe he was a closet Communist. Maybe he just liked a good time and he just happened to find the Black Widow Bar.

"Is there anyone to confirm that?" Rogers asked in a carefully neutral voice. Good, he'd noticed Samson's wily answers as well.

Samson's green eyes flashed with sudden amusement. His previous nonchalance was back, and there was definitely a glint of triumph in those clever eyes now. I wished I knew _why_. "No, there is not," he drawled. "I've no doorman and I don't make a habit of keeping records of every taxi driver I encounter. I assume you will next question my whereabouts for every day this week?"

I shrugged. "Pretty much."

"So you believe I had something to do with Dr. Banner's disappearance, hm?"

I couldn't help myself. "Why do you say that?" I asked casually.

Rogers winced at my elbow, but I ignored him and held Samson's icy gaze. A slow, smug air was gradually spreading over him, as if he knew something we didn't. I didn't like it.

"As it so happens," he said coolly, "I can account for my whereabouts every day this week. Including Sunday. I should think my appointment books would be of use. However, should you wish to see them, you will need to produce a warrant. I shall also be contacting my lawyer, should you have any further questions with which to insult me, Agent Barton." Samson looked between us disdainfully. "Now if you will excuse me, I have patients to attend."

He turned on his heel and swept down the hall with supreme indifference. I bit my lip. I could arrest him and hope that the humiliation of being dragged to the station in handcuffs would get him talking, but he'd already threatened to lawyer up and Samson seemed the type to follow up on his threats. Rogers sighed, and I felt my shoulders slump, even as my blood still boiled over Samson's attitude. I'd misjudged how to handle him, it would seem.

Rogers didn't say anything as he hit a button to summon an orderly to lead us out of the closed ward. Curiosity got the better of me while we waited. I approached Banner's door and slid the observation slit open. He was Banner again, slumped on the floor of his padded room with his chest moving laboriously under the tightened straightjacket. His eyes were closed. It was hard to believe this was the same guy I'd seen practically frothing at the mouth less than half an hour ago. My stomach twisted uncomfortably, and I swallowed and backed away. We followed the orderly in pensive silence, all the way back to my car.

* * *

><p>"Samson's hiding something," Rogers announced, once we were in the privacy of my Ford.<p>

"Y'think?" I snapped, savagely twisting the key in the ignition. The engine caught with a sputter and I pulled out into traffic, cursing Samson under my breath. I wasn't looking forward to admitting to Coulson I'd botched the questioning enough to have to force Samson to cooperate with us by way of warrant.

Rogers diplomatically ignored my pique. "He all but admitted to going to the Black Widow."

"Yeah," I agreed. I rubbed my chin thoughtfully. "The question is why. And why try to hide it?"

"You really think he might've had something to do with Banner's disappearance?" Rogers asked.

"Ain't ruling anything out at this point," I shrugged, thinking aloud. "But I can't see what'd Samson would want with Bruce Banner. Maybe we've got the wrong guy, and it wasn't Samson at all. Maybe it really is just an honest to God coincidence. "

"Maybe," Rogers said thoughtfully.

Neither of us really thought it was. There was an easy way to solve this dilemma, though. I changed lanes and headed west towards the Black Widow.

* * *

><p>Despite my tie, my luck wasn't in. We hit every red light between Cook County Hospital and the Black Widow Bar. It was a pity Rogers didn't get to see the place by night, I thought as we pulled up outside. The same gray glass of the neon sign glittered dully like spiders' silk, and the same bouncer told me that Ms. Romanoff was out. He didn't know when she would be back. He dug a chewed stub of pencil and a tired little notebook from a pocket, in case I wanted to leave a message. I told him we'd call later. We returned to the Federal Building, frustrated and without a positive identification of Samson, to put together the paperwork for his damned warrant.<p>

There were few things I hated more than paperwork. If Saipan was hell (and I was convinced it was), then paperwork was a hand-cramping no-man's-land, rife with comma-laden pitfalls and cryptic hieroglyphs in place of instructions. Unlike Phil Coulson, I'd never had enough rank to get stuck with much doing of it during the war. Not that there had been a lot of time for those formalities, in the jungle on damp-moldered paper with Japanese artillery screaming overhead.

It was different in the Bureau. There were forms for _everything_ (that much was like the Marines, anyway), plus case notes and reports to file for every case. I was hopeless with a typewriter, and Maria Hill remained the only secretary able to decipher the chicken scratches I called handwriting. So I was content to let Rogers take the lead, with his neat, educated hand.

From the way his nose wrinkled I could tell he enjoyed it about as much as I did, but he didn't complain. I grinned behind his back. Disliking paperwork was another sign of good sense, at least in my book.

Rogers and I had entered that horrible useless period in a case, where all we could do was wait. Wait for the autopsy. Wait for the warrant. Wait for the Vegas branch to send us a cause of death for Hank Pym, or for Rogers' pal out east to send us more on Reed Richards. We were nearly there; I could feel it. Just a few more pieces and the whole case would fall into place.

There wasn't any point in loafing around the office. Judges liked their weekends, though I knew Hank McCoy would continue his grim work until he finished. With any luck, we'd get the autopsy report before Monday. Rogers and I split up, him to his hotel, and me to my apartment. A night off would be good for both of us.

Except it wasn't really a night off. I saw Rogers tuck the case file into his coat as he left to hail a cab back to the Drake. Little scraps of information from Banner's case swirled around in my head while I drove, riding the eddies of my thoughts like detritus in the Chicago River.

I had the blue plate special for supper at another diner down the street from my apartment. The busboy had large, soft brown eyes like Banner. Someone had left a newspaper on the counter, and I thumbed through it absently, looking for anything about the case. Nothing, not even a couple inches in the local section. Had to hand it to Coulson and whatever favor he'd pulled with the CPD. I left a handful of coins beside my empty plate. There was a paper sack with a bottle of bourbon tucked into my Ford's glove compartment, ready for later. But I didn't feel much like drinking yet.

My apartment had the stale smell of a place too long closed up. I opened the windows despite the damp and threw my overcoat and jacket to their usual place on the back of the sofa. A train screeched and flashed past, making me want to dive for cover in the split-second it took me to realize what it was and resume kicking off my shoes and finding a new pack of cigarettes. I wondered if Janet Pym's mother had found her illicit smokes yet. I had to empty my pockets onto the table to find my lighter. The keys jangled musically as they hit the worn wood. A small packet of pills followed, and then my lighter with a heavy thump.

I lit a cigarette and stared at the little packet of pills. Banner's pills. I took a long drag and tipped the packet upside down. A few green pills rattled onto the table's surface. I stared at them for a few moments, smoking and tapping ash and thinking.

Just like Reno, they kept turning up. Banner had them. Pym had them. Stark had them. I didn't know about Richards, but it seemed a safe bet to assume he had them, too. For all the good it had done him.

It had been nagging me since we'd first found Banner's little pillbox. I rubbed a hand over my eyes while my thoughts slowly began to gel. Banner and Pym had both taken the pills. They both had sudden, violent mental breakdowns. The coincidence was just too much to ignore; I couldn't bring myself to believe that both men would have simply snapped in the same way a year and a couple thousand miles apart. Yet the pills were the only common factor. Besides, Stark didn't take them, and while he was a lot of things, he wasn't crazy. At least not like Banner and Pym.

I took a drag on my cigarette and held the smoke in my lungs a couple heartbeats before exhaling slowly. It couldn't be the pills, though, could it?

The answer was there somewhere, dangling just out of my grasp. I set the butt of my cigarette in the ashtray, but I did not take another one. I stared at the little pile of Banner's pills on the table and picked one up instead. It felt small and powdery between my thumb and forefinger. Slowly, deliberately, I got to my feet and filled a glass with water.

I bit my lip, hesitating. Hank McCoy was working on it, sure, but he had too much to do. It might be days before he could tell me what was really in the pills. Meanwhile, I could settle this for once and all. It _couldn't_ be the pills, right? Iodine never made anyone lose their marbles and kill a girl. Nothing would happen if I took one. Nothing at all.

The hell with it. Best to be sure. I tossed the little green pill into my mouth and washed it down with a swig of water.


	9. Chapter 9

_A/N: Hey, look, an update! Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed last chapter, I'm sorry I didn't get to write individual replies. End of semester chaos. Will try to do better with this update! Enjoy. :)  
><em>

* * *

><p><strong>That Radium Glow<strong>

Chapter 9

Nothing happened.

It had been twenty minutes according to my watch. A bead of cold sweat trickled between my shoulder blades, under my shirt. It stopped and pooled wetly when it hit the place the flesh of my back pressed into the hard wooden chair, making my skin prickle. My stomach twisted anxiously. I took the unlit cigarette from my lips and took a long swallow of water from my glass. My hand shook.

Belated discretion was starting to get the better of my valor. What was I thinking, taking one of Banner's pills? I was an idiot. I should have waited for McCoy. What if I was wrong? What if they really would make me crazy? The hell would I do then?

Twenty-one minutes. Nothing happened.

Rogers was going to kill me when he found out. Well, he wouldn't actually kill me. He would get me into all manner of hot water with Coulson, though. Death might actually be preferable. Forget Vice; Coulson would pack me to the typing pool for going so far off protocol.

I tired of my Bogey impression and reached up to light my cigarette. My hand shook, and the flame trembled. My stomach jolted with fear, but I took a long, deep breath and my fingers steadied. It was just nerves.

So far, anyway.

Ash fell onto my hand, making me jump. I'd forgotten about my cigarette. I stubbed it out in the ashtray at my elbow and checked my watch. Twenty-five minutes. A tight, tingling feeling was spreading through my stomach and up into my chest. I could feel my heart begin to pound against my ribs.

It was starting. What was starting? My hands started to shake again. What should I do? I didn't dare call Rogers, partner or not. I blinked and saw stars. I had to force air into my stiff lungs. That did it. I reached for the telephone, squeezing the Bakelite receiver until my knuckles went white. I asked the operator to connect me to the Black Widow.

* * *

><p>"Clint Barton, you absolute moron!" Natasha Romanoff spat, sweeping into my apartment in a huff. "I was <em>working!<em>" The fine gray fox around her shoulders tickled my nose as she passed. She carelessly tossed the coat on the sofa, revealing a shimmering red dress. She dragged me close by my collar and peered into my eyes. After a moment, she released me and dropped into my armchair. "You look fine."

"Really?" I croaked lamely. My heart was still pounding against my ribs, but the anxious choke in my throat eased a little at her proclamation. I crossed to the table and threw her my lighter and a pack of cigarettes with still-trembling hands. She wrinkled her nose at the brand but she took one anyway and lit it.

"Didn't you learn anything while you worked Vice? Your eyes would be dilated, or vice versa, if you were drugged," Natasha explained between puffs. "How long has it been?"

"Oh," I said, suddenly feeling very stupid. "Uh, about an hour?"

"You're fine," she grumbled. "I cannot _believe_ you, Barton. You said you were in trouble!"

"I am, sort of!" I admitted sheepishly. "We're stalled on Banner's case. They're supposed to be iodine pills."

Natasha's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean, _supposed_ to be?"

I picked up another one of Banner's pills from the table and dropped it into her hand, before collapsing onto the sofa. I hid the foot with the hole in the sock under my body. Natasha studied the pill with interest; rubbing it between her gloved fingers and sniffing it delicately.

"I thought they might have something to do with these, uh, psychotic episodes Banner's having," I said, wincing a little. It sounded so stupid now. How could I have been that stupid? "Causing them, actually."

Natasha dropped the pill like it had scalded her and rounded on me, eyes blazing. "So you took one just to see what would happen?" she demanded.

I cringed. "Yeah, that's…about right."

"Even though you suspected they might be drugged?"

"Yeah."

"_What were you thinking?_"

"I, uh, wasn't."

"Of course you weren't," Natasha huffed and folded her arms across her chest. I shot her another sheepishly apologetic look. She rolled her eyes and leaned back in the armchair. "Now that I'm here, I might as well stay a little while," she said carelessly, pulling off her soft leather gloves one finger at a time and setting them neatly atop her coat. "You going to offer me a drink?"

There was a trace of worry buried under her indignant façade. She'd read the plea in my eyes with her usual alacrity, but damned if she'd ever cop to it. I hid a relieved smile and got to my feet. "Got a half bottle of whiskey somewhere," I said over my shoulder while I padded into the kitchen. "Don't usually drink in the house." The floor felt cold through the hole in my sock. I dug through cupboards until I remembered I kept the whiskey behind the breadbox. Old habits died hard. I'd thought it was a good hiding place, a marriage and a lifetime ago.

There were clean tumblers collecting dust in one of the cabinets. I grabbed two and set them on the table. I poured a couple fingers of whiskey into each glass. I needed a drink badly after all this excitement, though I could feel muscles loosening and my stomach unclench as relief finally began to set in. I was wrong about the pills.

Natasha raised her eyebrows at me. "You know, Barton, if you wanted to get me alone, there are easier ways," she said as I handed her a glass. One of her fingers gently brushed the back of my hand. "You don't have to take strange pills and call me in a panic."

"Well, where's the fun in that?" I quipped with a grin. I took up my seat on the sofa again. Despite the evening's rocky start, it was good to finally breathe a little without Rogers looking over my shoulder. I could think of far worse ways to spend a night than drinking with Natasha Romanoff.

Natasha smirked at my remark, and I chuckled. We clinked glasses and drank. The whiskey burned down my throat, a little harshly after Stark's velveteen scotch, but still felt good and warm in my stomach. The second swallow went down easier than the first. Already my fingers were beginning to tingle pleasantly.

At this rate, we were going to need another bottle. I frowned and sniffed a little. Something was burning. It must not be in my flat, though, because I didn't see any smoke. I finished my whiskey in a long gulp and tried to will my shoulders to relax. Maybe I should run down to the car and get that bottle of bourbon.

The smoke took on the horrible smell of burnt flesh. I sat bolt upright. Natasha shot me a questioning look. "Do you smell that?" I demanded.

"They're close," Natasha said. I stared and her eyebrow crept still higher. "What? I don't smell anything."

I blinked. Oily black smoke was filling the room, but Natasha didn't seem to notice. I felt the tumbler slip out of my nerveless fingers. It hit the floor and shattered.

Foliage began to claw its way out of the loud floral pattern on her chair while I looked on in horror. Ragged green leaves, once lush and shiny tore upward from the upholstery. Woody stems shot through the arms and legs, twisting into branches. My breath caught in my chest. A single ragged hibiscus flower bloomed, clinging tenaciously to the place where Natasha's hand had been a moment ago.

The world tilted crazily and I hit something hard. The pain was far away. The floor. I'd fallen off the sofa. I could feel my heart begin to pound. No, that was absurd. A log. I'd fallen off a downed tree. There weren't any sofas for a couple thousand miles, Barton. Automatically my hands went to check my rifle and precious scope.

"'S a hell of a place, Frankie," someone said near my ear.

I started and saw Natasha crouched beside me on the floor. Rocks sprouted like absurd, twisted mushrooms from the loamy floor of my living room. Cordite and melting rubber joined the reek of burning flesh in the air.

Natasha's eyes were wide with fear and confusion. Her eyebrows furrowed with worry as she reached pleadingly towards me and said: "Nail him, little brother."

I put my eye to my scope. Bruce Banner's profile came into focus. I had a shot. "That's a rog," I replied.

Maybe there was once a time when I would have hesitated to put my finger on the trigger with a man in my sights, but if there was, it was difficult to remember. That had been someone else, long ago. I took two quick breaths followed by a long deep one. My hand steadied. Time slowed. My crosshairs settled on the head under the curly hair. I exhaled slowly.

My finger began to tighten on the trigger as the scream of a mortar sounded directly overhead, but I did not move. We'd been getting shelled for days. But Barney swore. My eye was jerked away from the scope as his body slammed into mine, forcing me down into the mud. My rifle bucked in my hands but the crack of the shot was lost in the demonic howl of the falling mortar. It was right on top of us. I yelled, struggling even as Barney's arms tightened protectively around me.

I knew what he was doing. I couldn't let him. But Barney had always been stronger than me. His hand inexorably ground my helmet into the muck. "NO!" I screamed, twisting desperately in his grasp.

The demonic whistle stopped. I could feel my brother's limbs trembling around me in the split second before the explosion. We screamed together as the world ripped apart in a blaze of fire and searing pain.

It was the ringing in my ears, not the agony that ravaged my gut and limbs, that woke me. I clawed my way back to consciousness through humid jungle darkness. The pain hit me full force and I tried to yell, but something heavy compressed my chest and it came out as a strangled gasp. Instinctively I reached for the worst of the pain, somewhere below my ribs. I could feel a jagged edge of metal sticking from my flesh. Whatever was lying on top of me was soft. Too soft.

"Barney?" I croaked. There was no reply.

I sagged back. Dimly I heard weapons firing from down the hill, and distant shouts. Something hot began to soak through my shirt. Palm fronds slithered and scraped between me and the sky. The shouts were growing nearer. I couldn't tell if they were English or Japanese.

"Barney?" I repeated. My voice was tinny and distorted under the ringing in my ears. Nothing.

My lung seared with the effort it took to speak. I coughed and nearly passed out when metal sliced into my innards. The hot liquid flowed freely along the edge of my dog tags, close to where the soft heavy weight pressed down near my heart. I shifted, annoyed. It was sticky and I hurt. I reached up with my non-pinned arm to try to shift the weight off of my chest. I needed to move. I needed to get up.

There was rough fabric beneath my fingers, though it had softened with age and wear. It felt warm and surprisingly limp as I pushed whatever it was away. Encouraged, I pushed harder, until I could get myself up on one elbow.

Barney's head lolled onto my leg, exposing sightless blue eyes in his bloodstained face. What little breath I could get caught in my throat and stayed there. Lifeless blue eyes. I started to shake. The hot substance sticking my shirt to my chest was blood draining from my brother's broken body.

The scream built low in my chest, down near the piece of shrapnel sticking between my ribs, and tore from my throat with all the force of the blast that had killed him.

* * *

><p>Leaves scraped in the wind. It was the sound of wind rustling corn stalks; the sound of home. I opened my eyes in the blinding tropical sun and saw palm fronds slithering overhead. All around me were soft groans, the familiar creaks and groans of a forest in wind. But there was no forest. There wasn't even any shade. I was surrounded by canvas litters like mine, draped with wounded men, soaking in blood and sweat and despair.<p>

My voice joined the chorus of thin voices moaning and pleading for morphine. I couldn't help it. The edges of my flesh rubbed together across my legs and torso, where I'd been pieced and sewed back together like a shredded rag doll. I called for Barney, too, even though I _knew_ it wasn't like Guadalcanal; he wasn't going to find me with a Purple Heart pinned to his bandaged chest and a grin on his face.

Two shadows took up positions at either end of my gurney. My stomach lurched as I was lifted into the air. Urgent whispers mingled with the moans and groans and snap of foliage in wind. "Ms. Romanoff?" A pause. "Good Lord. What the hell is going on?"

A low, tense, voice with the trace of a Slavic accent. "I don't know," the other shadow replied. "He said he took some pill; something for your case. He was fine when I got here. I don't know what happened. He just…lost it."

I sagged to the side, sapped by sun and blood loss. Every step they took caused me a jolt of pain. I reached weakly for the gauze covering my chest but a firm, strong hand grabbed my wrist. I struggled feebly under the firm hands. "Let me go!" I cried. "Barney!"

More hands grabbed at me, and I instinctively, irrationally fought back. My wounds seared and I cried out. Something cold and sharp slid into my bare skin near the crook of my arm, and I slid with it into cool darkness.

* * *

><p>It was dark when I woke, or at least it should have been. Cold water peppered my naked skin like sea spray from a lifetime ago and I shivered. My cheek twitched against something cold and wet and hard. I opened my eyes. I lay in a pool of harsh white light that made the ragged pavement glitter and glisten like a priceless jewel.<p>

My clothes were gone, save for my ragged trousers. The coppery scent of blood hung in the air, clinging to the moisture like barnacles on a rotting pier. I blinked and saw my hands and my chest were covered in red. A slick red stain marred the concrete, not far from where my head had been. Horrified, I scrabbled backwards, fleeing somewhere, anywhere , but I slammed into a pair of trouser-covered legs. I looked up.

Captain America frowned down at me, an expression like thunder on his patriotic features and disappointment in his eyes. "Barton, what did you do?"

I looked up at him blankly. He indicated a blanket-covered lump in the center of the illuminated circle. My mouth went dry and my heart began to race. Natasha Romanoff stepped languidly forward to pull back the blanket.

My brother Barney's empty eyes started unseeingly up at me, at the sky, at nothing at all. His reddish hair was stiff with blood; his mangled body still dressed in the fatigues he'd died and was buried in. Blood was splashed all around us, _everywhere_, collected into a sticky pool, smeared by feet and limbs all around the pavement. I wanted to scream but the only sound that made it past my terror-stiffened lips was a choked whimper.

"Look what you did," a low voice said, and when I looked up, Bruce Banner's soft brown eyes stared down at me with quiet hate. "He was your brother, Agent Barton. How could you?"

"I didn't," I gasped. Rainwater dripped down my skin, flowing awfully down the white scars that crisscrossed my torso.

"How could you, Clint?" Natasha said, her husky voice cool and judgmental. "You killed him."

"I didn't!" I cried. I couldn't take my eyes from my brother's body. I wanted to do something, to cover him, to run away, but I was frozen in place. "I tried, I didn't want him to-"

"What does it matter?" a new voice said, a tired female voice. I swallowed hard. My wife, former wife, Bobbi Morse stepped forward slowly. She was dressed in the same blue and white dress she'd worn when she told me she was leaving, when she'd packed her little bag, when she walked out of my life for good, while I looked on through a numb haze of whiskey. She bent slightly to peer into my face and tipped my chin upward with a finger. "You always blamed yourself, Clint. You couldn't bear to blame anyone else, ever, for anything. You couldn't let anyone help, not even me. You believed you killed Barney, and now you have."

I flinched, shaking Bobbi's fingers away. She stepped back and put her hands on her hips, judging me in silence. "No," I choked.

Three accusing pairs of eyes stared down at me. I huddled into myself under their collective unblinking gaze, suddenly feeling more naked and exposed than I'd ever felt in my life. "We found him at the scene," Natasha said. She took a menacing step towards me.

"Covered with blood," Banner added, following her with his soft tread.

I tried to scuttle away from them, but Rogers already had me. He dragged me to my feet, pinioning my arms in an iron grip. Bobbi held a canvas jacket that had once been white, festooned with sturdy leather straps and metal buckles. My hands balled into desperate fists and I twisted in Rogers' grasp, struggling for all I was worth.

"Barton, _Clint_, please stop," Rogers said. "You'll hurt yourself!"

It was an odd thing to say but I didn't care. "Let me go!" I cried, swinging wildly at his face. Why wasn't Natasha helping me? Why was she helping him? I could feel her fingers digging into my shoulder. "I didn't- I couldn't have- No!"

Bobbi looked bored while I struggled with Rogers and Natasha. Banner looked away, as if sickened by the sudden violence. I yelled, but it was no use. Something heavy collided with my jaw and I fell into darkness.

* * *

><p>My nose tickled and I twitched. I tried to scratch it, but my hand wouldn't move. I groaned and dragged my eyes open to see nothing but white blankness. I blinked several times. The dull plaster of my ceiling, illuminated by the sickly gray light of predawn. I winced.<p>

"What…happened?" a distant voice, very far away, groaned. It took me a full thirty seconds to realize that the voice was _my_ voice.

"Clint?" Natasha Romanoff asked, also from very far away.

"Who else…would it be?" I retorted sourly. I was gradually becoming aware of my body and I wished I wasn't. My head throbbed mercilessly, and my mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton. The same cotton that had been substituted for my brains. Natasha's bright red hair, followed by her tired face, swam into focus above me. "Tash?"

Her nose wrinkled. "Go back to sleep, Barton," she said. A cool, damp cloth wiped across my aching forehead and I sighed with relief. "You sound drunk."

Was I drunk? I didn't remember being drunk. I didn't remember much of anything. I tugged feebly on my hand, but it still refused to move. I squinted at it, trying to will my eyes to focus. It felt a hell of a lot like there were handcuffs around my wrists. No, not handcuffs. Rope. She'd tied me down. "The hell is this?" I demanded weakly.

Natasha swatted my twisting hand. "A precaution. Go back to sleep. I'm going home to take a nap myself, as soon as Rogers gets back."

"What? You called _Rogers_?" I cried. I couldn't remember why this betrayal cut me to the quick, but it did. I tried to sit up but I didn't get more than a couple inches before the ropes stopped me and I fell back with a huff of frustration. My head swam and I winced.

"He's your _partner_, Barton," Natasha snapped. "Start acting like it!"

Stung by her words, I shut my eyes and turned my face towards the window. Despite my irritation, I fell asleep almost instantly. This time, thank God, I did not dream.

* * *

><p>I didn't wake again until the sun was fully risen and weakly shone through my bedside window. The smell of coffee permeated my flat. I sniffed greedily and opened my eyes. My vision was clearer, though my mouth still felt like it'd been stuffed with old socks. I tugged my right hand experimentally. It didn't move. I craned my neck to the side, but my bedside table was gone. Not that I could have reached my water glass anyway.<p>

"Anyone there?" I rasped. My voice sounded hoarse and far weaker than I would have liked.

A chill raced down my spine when Steve Rogers instantly appeared in my bedroom doorway. I had a sudden, half-remembered vision of iron fingers and a look of righteous distaste, but I blinked and saw he was just looking down at me with curiosity and a little wary concern. Captain America was in his shirtsleeves and he clutched a cup of coffee in one hand.

"Barton?" he asked hesitantly.

A draft from the window swept over my bare skin, and I suddenly realized I'd been stripped to my shorts. There was no way he hadn't seen my scars. My stomach twisted. I licked dry lips with a drier tongue and scraped together all the nonchalance I could, so Rogers wouldn't see my insecurity. I raised my eyebrows at him. "You going to untie me or what?"

Rogers grinned. "Good to have you back," he said, obviously relieved.

I grunted by way of reply as Rogers fumbled with the ropes binding me to the bed. My bed; not jungle loam or South Loop pavement. My bedroom still felt slightly surreal. I hauled myself laboriously upright and swung my legs over the edge of the mattress. The movement was enough to make my head spin and my limbs trembled like I'd had a bad bout with the influenza. I ducked to press my elbows to my knees and ran my hands through my greasy hair while I tried to breathe. Two raw, red rings burned on my wrists, where the ropes had bit into my skin. I touched one of them experimentally and winced.

"We didn't know what else to do," Rogers said hastily, when he noticed me looking at my chafed skin.

I looked up, and he was holding out a glass of water. I hadn't noticed him leave the room, just like I hadn't noticed the hell of a shiner blacking his left eye. I had a pretty good idea of who had given it to him. "Sorry," I muttered, embarrassed. I accepted the glass and sipped it greedily.

He shrugged. "You weren't exactly yourself."

I choked on my water and set the cup on the floor while I coughed. His eyes, crinkled with concern, lingered on me a little longer than I would have liked. I could tell he wanted to ask, but he didn't.

I ran my hand through my hair again, trying to collect my scattered thoughts. Fragments of memory were slowly coming back, though it was a little difficult to tell what had been real and what had not. I suddenly remembered Natasha had been with me earlier. I was almost afraid to ask. "Is Natasha all right?"

Someone had dragged one of the hard wooden chairs from the dining set into my bedroom. Rogers turned it around and straddled it cowboy-style. "She's fine," he told me in a quiet, surprisingly nonjudgmental voice. "A little shaken up, I'd say. To be honest, I think you scared her."

Natasha Romanoff, survivor of the Battle of Stalingrad and Hero of the Soviet Union, did not scare easily. I shuddered and looked at the floor, feeling my cheeks warm with embarrassment again. Rogers didn't have any holes in his socks. "That bad, huh?" I muttered.

"You'd, uh, busted up a couple of things by the time I got here," he told me, wincing a little. "But it was mostly just…yelling. Yelling and screaming. You seemed more scared than anything else. Not as violent as Banner."

"Christ," I swore under my breath. I rubbed my face and felt stubble prickle my palm. I had a pretty good idea what I was screaming about, too.

"The first night was pretty rough," Rogers continued. I could feel his eyes boring into me. "You were delirious, feverish. Natasha wanted to take you to the hospital, but-"

"Wait, _first_ night?" I interrupted, looking up. "How long was I out?"

"About 36 hours," Rogers told me and I blinked incredulously. "It's Monday afternoon."

"_Christ_," I breathed. I pressed my hands to either side of my aching head with a wince, trying to make sense of this new information with my drug-scrambled brains. Banner's story was starting to fall into place. "Does Coulson know?"

"Of course not!" Rogers exclaimed. I looked up, stunned by this admission, and he grinned. "Barton, do you have any _idea_ how many regulations we just broke? You think I'd hang my partner out to dry?"

I felt my cheeks color a little, but I managed a sheepish chuckle. Apparently I had badly misjudged Steve Rogers. He only looked uptight, at least most of the time.

"Look, you took a stupid risk," Rogers explained earnestly. "But you also just blew open this case. There's no doubt; Banner was drugged."

"I'd wager Hank Pym, too," I added. I winced as an acid churn rumbled through my empty stomach. I leaned on my elbows again, fighting back a sudden wave of nausea.

"You all right?" Rogers asked, concerned.

I breathed deeply and pressed the back of my hand to my mouth. Every muscle ached and I wanted nothing more than to go back to bed and sleep for a year, but there was a case to solve. "Yeah," I replied tersely. "Nothing a shower and a cup of joe won't fix."

Rogers eyed me suspiciously, and partner or not, I gave him my steely glare. He took the hint and got to his feet. "I'll leave you to it, then."

I levered myself off the bed, swearing as my head spun. I shot a warning look at Rogers and he didn't help me. Instead he hung in my doorway, hesitating. He looked like he wanted to ask me something, but he wasn't quite sure how to go about doing it.

I didn't have the patience to wait for him to decide. I just wanted a shower and a sandwich and a hell of a lot of coffee. "Just spit it out, Rogers," I said with a sigh. "What?"

He swallowed. "Who's Barney?"


	10. Chapter 10

**That Radium Glow**

Chapter 10

"_Who's Barney?"_

My brother's name dropped from Rogers' lips to punch me square in the gut. He did Sugar Ray proud. I felt the blood drain from my face. I didn't talk about Barney. I couldn't find the words; I'd never been able to find the words. The hole in my heart and the wounds in my body were still raw, even five years on.

"Why d'you ask?" I replied stiffly, even though I already knew the answer.

Rogers' eyes were wide. He looked like he was beginning to regret his question, but he couldn't stop himself. "You were, uh, calling for him."

My heart sank to somewhere around my ankles. It wasn't his business. God only knew what I'd said when I was out, but _I didn't talk about Barney_. I'd never ask Rogers about what happened to him during the war, not ever. Why the hell should he? Why the hell should I tell him?

I glanced away. Natasha's words still echoed in my ears, hanging in my thoughts like stale cigarette smoke. I bit back the urge to tell Rogers to butt out and mind his own goddamn business. She was right, as usual. He was my partner. Maybe I should start treating him like it.

Sore muscles twinged as I reached up for a wooden shadow-box, set face down on the top shelf of the single bookshelf in my bedroom. Barney's medals rattled against the wood as I wiped away dust with my palm. Bobbi had put it together right after I'd been discharged. I imagined I could still smell her perfume under the dust. I took a deep breath and handed the frame to Rogers.

I knew its appearance by heart even though I hardly ever looked at it. The back of the shadow-box was covered in soft black velvet. There was a photograph of me and Barney pinned to the center of the velvet, the night before we shipped out for Hawaii. Our uniforms were still whole and crisp, our idealistic faces still unweathered by salt and sun. Barney smiled; his arm draped affectionately over my shoulders. I was grinning like a loon. I wished I could remember why.

Barney's Bronze Star and his handful of Purple Hearts were pinned to the black velvet under the photograph. Bobbi had left space for my own medals, too, but I'd never used it. My medals were in a box at the very back of the bathroom cabinet, on the shelf I couldn't reach without standing on a chair.

"He was my brother," I said slowly. The words were thick and reluctant against my tongue. "Couple years older than me. I was still a kid when our parents died. He looked out for me growing up; I was always that pain-in-the-ass little brother getting in trouble, you know? He did the best he could. We enlisted together after Pearl Harbor. Figured why the hell not? It was a ticket out of Iowa, and we wanted to see the world. We had nothin' to lose."

I sat down on the edge of my bed and ran my hands through my greasy hair. Somehow the words began to flow a little freer. "The one good thing our dad ever did was teach us how to shoot. The Marines thought so, too. Me and Barney'd been hunting together since we were kids. I wouldn't have anyone else for a spotter, and besides, it kept us together."

The floorboards creaked a little as Rogers shifted in the doorway. I tensed; almost afraid he was going to sit beside me or make some other kind gesture. But he simply leaned against the wooden trim and crossed his arms over his chest, listening carefully.

"We were on Saipan when we got hit by a mortar while I was setting up a shot," I continued, forcing my voice to stay as dry and toneless as a situation report. If I stuck to the facts it didn't hurt as bad, and I didn't want to crack again in front of Rogers. Once was enough. "I don't know if they spotted us or if they just got lucky. Barney saw it coming, but there wasn't any cover. He jumped on me right before it hit. He died instantly."

Despite my best efforts, there was a lump in my throat and a weight in my heart. "They told me later that his body shielded me from the worst of the blast," I added. Rogers had seen my scars. He'd figure it out. "I'd have died too if Barney hadn't grabbed me. I nearly died as it was. But he saved his pain-in-the-ass little brother one last time."

I reached out and thumbed his Bronze Star; Barney's recompense for saving my life and losing his own. I'd never thought it was a particularly fair trade.

"I'm sorry," Rogers said quietly. I glanced up, startled a little by the sound of his voice. I'd almost forgotten he was in the room while lost in my memories. He looked sad and a little uncomfortable, but there wasn't anything else he could really say. It was all anyone could.

Sudden anger, at Rogers, at Barney, at the whole goddamn war, burned through me. "It's war," I snapped, more harshly than I'd intended. "It happens."

Rogers didn't say anything while I stalked around my bedroom, ripping open doors and drawers and slamming them shut with more than the necessary force while I collected fresh clothing for the day ahead. I brushed past him without a word, heading for my shower. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him replace the shadow-box on the shelf with careful reverence before I pulled the bathroom door shut behind me. Finally, I was alone.

I flipped on the water and waited for it to warm. The old ache gnawed through my ribs, radiating outward from the lonely void in my heart. A lump swelled into my throat and my scars tugged a little as I hugged my arms across my chest against the chilly air.

Christ, I missed Barney.

Whatever was in that damned pill had torn open the old wounds without mercy. I wasn't over it, I doubted I ever would be, but I couldn't face it now. I didn't want to face it now. There was a case to solve. I swallowed hard and slipped into the shower.

The water was hot enough to make me gasp. It scalded my chafed wrists and I swore loudly. I reached to turn it down a little and leaned my forehead against the tiled wall, letting the warm spray beat away at my grief. Somehow I'd pull myself together. I always did. A hot shower always had the power to make me feel like I wasn't doomed. Like everything was clean and fresh, and anything was possible. Even when it wasn't.

I was still no Shirley Temple by the time I'd finished cleaning up, but the hot water had eased both the ache in my chest and the knots in my shoulders. It made it that much easier to face Rogers when I emerged in my shirtsleeves, a tie draped half-heartedly over my shoulder. He was waiting at the table for me, a cup of coffee and a plate of toast and eggs laid out at the place across from him. I raised an eyebrow and he swallowed. "I, uh, thought you might be hungry," he said awkwardly.

He had that same expression he'd had at Banner's crime scene, the one that reminded me of an anxious puppy needing reassurance. It was clear he was trying to make up for asking me about Barney. He watched me uncertainly and I quickly became absorbed in trying to button my cuffs. There had been a subtle shift in our relationship and we could both sense it. He knew about Barney now. It changed things. Strangely, I felt relieved more than anything else. It was like I didn't have to hide anymore.

"I only really know how to do eggs," Rogers added, somewhat apologetically.

I felt the corner of my mouth quirk upward. Eggs were probably all I'd had in the icebox, and that was no fault of his. Suddenly, I was ravenous. "Thanks, Rogers," I replied, dropping into the seat and attacking the food with gusto.

Rogers watched me eat. He still looked uncertain and a little bit pensive. I didn't know why and I didn't want to deal with it. I rubbed my hand across my face and picked up the mug of coffee, casting around for a safe topic of conversation. Work was always good, even though we dealt with violent death on a regular basis. I frowned, trying to remember the details of where I'd last left Banner's case. Right, Samson's warrant. "So where do we stand with the warrant?"

He relaxed, clearly as relieved as I was to break the silence with a neutral topic. "Natasha identified Samson from his photograph," Rogers told me, looking pleased. A thrill twanged through my chest. "He was at the Black Widow with Banner the night he disappeared."

I stiffly leaned back in my chair. The muscles in my back still ached, but I was already beginning to feel a lot more human now that I had something in my stomach. "Well, we got him," I said, nursing my coffee. "But for what?"

"Obstruction, at the very least," Rogers observed. "He's got to know something. Otherwise why risk the lie?"

"I don't get it, though," I complained, absently reaching up to scratch my chin. "What would Samson want with Banner?"

"Somebody drugged him," Rogers agreed. He took a sip from his own mug. "The question is who?"

"And why," I added. "And how does Pym-"

The telephone rang, cutting me off midsentence. I raised an eyebrow at Rogers and got up to answer it. "Barton."

"_Agent Barton!"_ Hank McCoy's cheerful bass boomed through the receiver. I winced and held it a little away from my ear. _"You sound terrible. Are you all right?"_

I guess I did sound pretty hoarse. "Just a cold," I replied, throwing in a fake cough for good measure. I cupped my hand over the mouthpiece and whispered to Rogers, "It's McCoy." He shot me a confused look and I added, "The medical examiner." I removed my hand and continued the conversation. "You got something for us, Hank?"

Hank hesitated_. "Indeed I do,"_ he said, carefully vague. _"I've finished the autopsy on the girl; the head trauma."_

"Really," I said, snapping my fingers to get Rogers' attention. He guessed what I was thinking and got up to stand beside me. I held out the receiver a little bit so he could listen.

"_I'd rather not say over the telephone,"_ Hank continued, still cautious. My heart beat a little faster and I saw Rogers' brow furrow. Was this the break we'd been waiting for? If it had been something simple, McCoy would have just spit it out. "_You need to see this one, Clint."_

"We'll head over right away," I said. "Thirty minutes or so."

We said our goodbyes and hung up. Rogers left the plates in the sink while I downed the remainder of my coffee and found my jacket. We pulled on our hats and overcoats on the way to my car.

The weather had improved a little while I'd been out. Gunmetal clouds hovered low over the city, teasing flashes of blue sky in a brisk wind off the lake like the promise of ruffled bloomers at a burlesque show. At least the rain had stopped. The only sound was the sticking sound of tires on damp concrete and the rumble of the engine as we headed south towards downtown.

Rogers was quiet and withdrawn; uncharacteristically pensive. Clearly he had something on his mind, and I had the suspicion he was trying to work up the nerve to spit it out. Sure enough, he waited until we were sitting at a traffic signal to drop the bomb.

"I couldn't do it anymore," he said suddenly. His hands opened and closed nervously on his trouser-covered legs. "Follow orders, I mean."

I shot him a confused glance. "What?"

"You asked me why I left the Army," Rogers elaborated. Oh, that. I had asked. It felt like a lifetime ago. He began to run the rim of his hat between his fingers, over and over, like he'd done in the closed ward at Cook County. "I lost someone. It…changes things."

I thought a moment, racking my brains for the fuzzy memories of newsreels I'd seen lying in a hospital bed. An enthusiastic baritone describing a daring raid deep into enemy territory, over images of snow-covered mountains and determined soldiers. Headlines proclaiming that the nation mourned with Captain America. At the time, still reeling from the loss of my brother, I'd simply been glad my grief wasn't on display in movie theaters across the country. "Barnes, wasn't it?" I said quietly.

He smiled faintly. "You have a good memory. No, not Bucky. Though that hurt, more than I could imagine. We grew up together, you know. He was more like my brother than anything else. They got that part right."

Rogers sighed and took the plunge. "According to the newsreels, we were mopping up pockets of SS resistance in the Austrian Alps. We were actually hunting Hydra, the Nazi's top-secret science division." He glanced up at me for emphasis. "They were nasty, Barton, even for Nazis. Human experimentation and such. Bucky was actually one of their subjects for a little while. He…wasn't the same after."

I studied him out of the corner of my eye. Rogers' cheeks were flushed with anger, a righteous anger that I understood better than I'd ever admit. The words seemed to pain him, but now that he'd started he couldn't seem to stop. They spilled awkwardly over each, falling and splashing the sentences together in a stream of story.

"We fought our way into one of their bases. We knew they'd been working on something big, but we had no idea. We found an experimental plane loaded down with enough gas to take out London and the rest of southern England, ready to take off. One of our operatives managed to get on board before Hydra caught up with us and we were pinned down. There was nothing we could do once it took off; it was too fast for us to shoot it down. She didn't have a choice. She crashed it in the Channel."

Rogers paused for a moment there, and when he spoke again there was a curious choke in his voice. I had a sudden sinking feeling about this operative. He took a deep breath and I could see the effort it took him to finish his tale. "Her name was Peggy Carter. She was my fiancée. I stayed on the radio with her until…it happened."

"_Jesus_," I muttered. I didn't know what else to say. I had a sudden horrible image of Bobbi behind the controls of a plane, grimly determined as she rushed towards slate-gray waves. I shuddered and ran a hand awkwardly through my hair. I was slowly realizing that there was a lot more to Steve Rogers than Captain America and his good looks. Maybe I shouldn't have been so much of a heel.

But Steve Rogers was made of stern stuff. He pulled himself together and continued. "Things changed after Peggy died," he said, looking at his hands. "Bucky, too. I just couldn't do it anymore. I couldn't get up and smile for the cameras and pretend like everything was fine and good in the service of Uncle Sam. I was tired of watching the people I cared about sacrifice everything for that. So I finished out my tour and asked for a discharge."

"Can't say I blame you," I said aloud. I'd have done the same, but without the asking first.

Rogers snorted. "That's not what Colonel Phillips said." He rubbed his chin. "I still wanted to serve, though, somehow. I tried to join the Secret Service; what better way to serve than to protect the President? But they told me I was too famous. Director Fury suggested I apply to the Academy instead, and here I am."

"The Secret Service, really?" I said wryly, trying to lighten the mood. We'd dwelled enough for one day. "Well, their loss. Can't believe anyone would pass up that jawline of yours, Rogers."

He managed a watery smile, but his eyes remained distant. We fell into a slightly uncomfortable silence. I signaled and changed lanes, the gold dome of the Federal Building looming through the passenger side window. Rogers didn't seem to see it. Neither of us spoke for several moments. I forgot sometimes that I wasn't the only one who had lost, the only one with a void in my heart and an empty place at my table.

"I, uh, just thought you should know," Rogers explained awkwardly, breaking the silence. I glanced at him and suddenly I felt a little less lonely. Maybe he forgot sometimes, too. "You trusted me. Figured it was my turn."

I swallowed another smart-ass reply. Barney would have been proud of my restraint. "Well, thanks," I said soberly. It was now or never. After a beat I added: "Sorry I been such a heel."

Rogers shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Didn't mean to drop it all on you like that."

"Hey, what are partners for?" I shrugged. It was the first time I'd used the word and actually _meant_ it. Rogers looked up, so hopeful and relieved all at once that I chuckled. I held up a warning finger. "Just so long as you ain't expecting these little chats every day, Cap. A guy has a reputation to maintain."

"Fair enough," Rogers replied. He smiled hesitantly. "So long as you promise to stay out of the crazy-pills."

* * *

><p>The same orderly was in the morgue's antechamber, leafing through the same dog-eared comic book. He waved me through without so much as a cursory glance. He did a double take when Steve Rogers passed, and he looked up gaping. I shot him my steely glare until he looked back at the comic book and rapped on the glass door with my knuckles. Dr. Hank McCoy appeared a moment later, his broad shoulders filling the doorway. He smiled at me and gestured us in.<p>

He shook my hand warmly. "You don't look at all well, Clint," he observed, peering at me through the absurdly tiny spectacles perched on the end of his thick nose. "Are you all right?"

"Didn't sleep very well," I replied. It wasn't exactly a lie. I'd been out for over a day and now that the coffee was wearing off, I could feel an exhausted ache creeping back into my bones.

"And this must be Agent Rogers!" McCoy said brightly. He shook Rogers' hand with enthusiasm. "I'm Hank McCoy, medical examiner. Wonderful to meet you at last."

Rogers brightened like he did any time anyone called him _Agent _instead of _Captain_. "Pleasure," he replied. "Barton says you've got something interesting for us, Doctor?"

"Hank, please," the big man said pleasantly. "If you'll follow me."

We followed him into the bowels of the basement. I could feel my heart pounding a little harder when we reached the autopsy theater. McCoy ran a tight ship, so the white tile and stainless steel gleamed brightly enough to make me see spots, but it still had that antiseptic hospital smell with an emphatic whiff of death below. There was something covered by a clean white sheet on one of the tables, with neat piles of documents beside it. A couple of x-rays were tacked to a light-cabinet nearby.

"Her name is Doreen Green," McCoy said, gesturing to the body under the white sheet. "Twenty-two years old, moved to Chicago from Gary a year ago. She worked as a cigarette girl at the Black Widow bar. Her flatmate reported her missing last Monday, after she failed to return home after her shift Sunday night. I identified her by her dental records, for obvious reasons."

Rogers and I glanced at each other. That lined up with when Banner had been at the bar. The timeline certainly fit. "Do you know how she died?" Rogers asked.

"That's why I called you down," McCoy said. He pulled back the sheet, exposing the now-clean hair of Doreen Green. I braced myself, but her neatly parted hair covered the worst of the damage to her skull. That was Hank McCoy. He always tried to give them some dignity, even on a metal slab. "Miss Green was not beaten to death."

"What?" I exclaimed. Rogers' brow furrowed skeptically.

McCoy indicated a small mark on the back of the girl's neck, between the knobs of bone near her hairline. Rogers bent slightly to get a closer view, and I had to squint a little to distinguish it from the scrapes and cuts caused by the pavement. I frowned questioningly up at McCoy.

"Notice the edges of this cut?" he said. "Very smooth. Not ragged, like you'd expect from a scrape. A sharp instrument made this cut. I've seen similar wounds on bodies brought in by Organized Crime."

A small wound to the back of the neck made by a sharp, probably pointed object, usually brought in by the- I blinked. "She was _ice-picked_?" I exclaimed again.

"Not exactly, but the general idea holds," McCoy continued. "Based on the size of the wound and the marks on the bone revealed by the x-rays, it was a somewhat larger instrument. But yes, she was killed by a single, expert thrust through the spine and into the brain. She died instantly, and thankfully, before the head trauma was inflicted."

Rogers looked sick. I felt my jaw drop. "But what about the blood we found at the scene?" I protested. "There was blood everywhere. Banner was covered in it!"

"It's not her blood," Hank said. "It's the correct type, yes, but there's simply too much of it. It did not all come from her body." Rogers and I looked at each other, dumbfounded. Hank gently covered the girl's body again and glanced up at us. "Someone went to great lengths to do this, Clint. And someone took great pains to try to hide her actual cause of death."

"It couldn't have been Banner," Rogers breathed, after a moment. We both knew why. "There's no way."

McCoy moved to wheel the girl back into the chilled room. "Hank, did you ever get anything on those pills I gave you?" I asked, forcing my voice to remain casual.

"Well, they're not iodine," McCoy replied over his shoulder.

_Y'think?_ I mouthed at Rogers behind his back. He grinned for an instant before Hank turned around to pull the door shut and we had to put our serious lawman faces back on.

"It's quite an odd compound, Clint," McCoy continued, removing his gloves and throwing them away. He moved to the table to collect his paperwork and the x-rays, tapping them into neat stacks as he did so. "It appears inert until exposed to alcohol, specifically ethanol. The reaction produces something that resembles a synthetic hallucinogen that I've encountered before, but I'd need to do the crystallography to be certain."

I bit my lip. Well, that explained a lot. I'd been drinking that night. So had Banner, the night he disappeared. And-

"I gave Banner a drink from my flask," I muttered to Rogers in an undertone, while Hank shuffled into his office to put away his paperwork.

"What?"

"The day we found him," I whispered, resisting the urge to smack my forehead with the heel of my hand. "He must have convinced them to let him take one of the pills. I think it put him in the psych ward."

Rogers gaped at me. Talk about sheer dumb luck. If I hadn't given Banner that drink, who knew how this would have played out?

"Hank," I called, and Hank's head popped out of his office. "If someone taking these, uh, hallucinogen things, drank alcohol, what would happen?" McCoy shot me a knowing look over his glasses, and I squirmed under his accusing gaze. He didn't call me out, though, and I hastily added: "We think Bruce Banner might have been, uh, under their influence at the time of Miss Green's death."

"Well, I would expect several hours of intense hallucinations, at the very least. The substance in the pills is quite concentrated; I can't imagine it would be pleasant."

"About how long do you think the effects would last?" Rogers asked, following my thinking.

McCoy shrugged. "Without further testing, it's difficult to say. It depends on the concentration of the drug, duration of exposure, the metabolism of the person, acquired tolerance-"

"Okay, we get the picture," I interjected. "Ballpark figure, if you can."

He removed his glasses and polished the little lenses on a handkerchief from his pocket. "At least eight hours, possibly twelve, if the substance is as psychoactive as the other drugs I've encountered. However, if it's as powerful as I suspect, the effects could last well over a day."

"How capable would someone experiencing these hallucinations be?" Rogers asked. He already knew the answer to that question. I shifted uncomfortably.

Hank cocked a very hairy eyebrow at him. "You mean would he or she be able to kill Miss Green? I should think not. It was a very precise stroke that would have required a steady hand. An expert hand, even. Her post-mortem injuries could have been caused by someone under the drug's influence, but not the blow that killed her. It's simply too precise."

Rogers looked at me and I looked at him. We both knew Hank spoke the truth. A taut thrill vibrated through my stomach and the little hairs prickled on the back of my neck. My gut instinct had been right. Banner did not murder Doreen Green. He couldn't have.

"There's no doubt, then," I said aloud. "Bruce Banner was framed."

* * *

><p><em>AN: please review! :)_


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